[Illustration: 9278]
E took an omnibus, and were presently in the big house on Washington
Square.
“Hello, young man!” said the Commodore, as he took the hand of McCarthy.
“Going out to the stable to look at a sick horse. Come along!”
He donned his overcoat, which had a collar of gray fur of about the
shade of his hair, and it put a wonderful finish on him. I never saw in
all my life a better figure of a man.
We went with him to a large stable back of the house. I recall my wonder
at its size and comfort and cleanliness, and the splendor of its many
vehicles and trappings. Yet it was not fine enough for the Commodore,
who, seeing a wisp of straw on the floor of the carriage-room, larrupped
the coachman with high words. Then a quick, spoken command:
“Bring out the mare!”
Out came the mare in a jiffy, and Mr. Vanderbilt looked into her mouth
and felt her throat and legs, and said, presently, “Take her back, and
have her bled in the morning.”
He let down the shafts of a light road-wagon and rolled it to the middle
of the floor.
“There's a good wagon,” said he. “Take hold of the axle and heft it.”
We did so, and were surprised at the lightness of the graceful thing.
“Not much heavier than a tom-cat,” said the Commodore, “and it cost me
ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand dollars! Why, it cost as much as a house!” said Mr.
McCarthy.
“As much as some houses,” the Commodore went on. “I sent for a good
carriage-builder and told him to plan the lightest wagon that would
safely carry my weight. He brought the plan for a fifty-eight pound
wagon at fifteen hundred dollars. 'Twon't do,' says I. 'Make it just as
strong and five pounds lighter and I'll double your pay.' Well, he came
back by-and-by with a plan for a fifty-pound wagon for three thousand
dollars. 'That's the best you can do, is it?' says I. 'Well,' says he,
'I might get it down a few ounces if I had time to study the problem.'
'Take time,' says I, 'and I'll pay you a hundred dollars an ounce for
all the weight you can take out of the wagon, but you must keep it as
strong as it is now.' He took four pounds off the weight of it, and
the saving cost me sixteen hundred dollars a pound. Money is quite a
stimulant if it's used right.”
The gentleman stood looking thoughtfully at the Commodore. When the
story was finished he struck the air with his hand, saying:
“Mr. Vanderbilt, that wagon is worth its weight in diamonds.” We looked
into his glowing eyes, and he went on: “Let me tell you why. If brains,
rightly stimulated, can reduce the weight of a road-wagon without
any loss of strength, let's see what they can do with our big, clumsy
freight and passenger cars. If we could take a hundred pounds off every
car in the country, think what it would mean. That weight could be
turned from expense into income. Think of the saving in power and fuel.
It would mean millions of dollars!”
“Well, boy, go to work on that proposition,” said the Commodore. “I'll
give you a dollar for every pound you save on every car that runs over
my tracks. I wish to God that my boy Bill had your push!”
“You are very kind, sir,” said McCarthy.
“Look out for the weight of your head,” Mr.
Vanderbilt continued; “it's your freight-car--remember that--and you
don't want to carry any sap in it. Let me tell you a story: Bill is a
fat, good-natured cuss, and wants to take it easy, like all boys with a
rich father. I told him that I wouldn't have him loafing around, and I
sent him down on the farm and put him to work there, and Bill is getting
along. He played a good joke on me, and I've made up my mind that he'll
do for the railroad business.
“He says to me the other day, 'Father, I need some manure for the farm.'
“'Well, boy, how much do you want?' I says. “'Seven or eight loads,'
says he.
“'How much 'll you pay a load?' says I.
“'A dollar a load,' says he.
“'All right,' I says to him, 'come over to the car-stables and get all
you need at that figure.'
“What do you suppose the cuss done to me? He come over and got eight
schooner loads!” Mr. Vanderbilt roared with laughter.
“'You're no farmer,' I says to him. 'Come right over and learn the
railroad business.'” The Commodore pushed the road-wagon back into its
corner.
“On your way to Pittsburg?” he inquired. “Yes, sir,” Mr. McCarthy
answered, with a sly wink at me.
“Anything more to say?”
“No, sir.”
“That's good. It's a wise man that knows when he's said enough.
Good-night.”
Mr. McCarthy and I left to go to our inn.
“'On your way to Pittsburg?'” said the handmade gentleman, repeating the
query of the Commodore. “How did he know that I was going to Pittsburg?”
“He's been at work on your programme, perhaps,” I suggested.
“And has a hand in the affairs of the Central system,” my friend went
on. “That's his way of telling me. He has bought the Harlem and Hudson
River roads, and has the ring in the bull's nose, and the continuous
route is now a certainty. But we are not to talk too much. You can make
up your mind that the Commodore knows all about us. I probably don't
say or do much that isn't reported to him. A foolish word or two and he
would be done with me.”
My friend went to see Miss Manning, but soon joined me at the inn and
reported that she was not at home.
At midnight we were on our way to Philadelphia in a draughty coach. It
was an up-to-date train, equipped with the Miller platform, coupler, and
buffer, which gave it a continuous floor and cane-woven seats, and the
trainmen carried the new movable globe lantern. The rails were joined so
as to soften the tread of the wheels, but still the bang, bang of them
at the rails' ends filled the train with its clamor. We had brought a
couple of shawls with us, and we used them for pillows, and lay half
reclining on the hard seats beneath our overcoats. We slept a little in
spite of the roaring wheels and rattling windows and the shriek of the
trainmen at all the stops and the snore-streaked, chilly silences that
followed, and rose stiff and sore at daybreak to wait for the west-bound
train. It was hard travel, but far easier than that of the stage-coach,
of which my mother had told me, and in those days it seemed like the
height of luxury. All next day and another night we travelled, and Mr.
Carnegie met us at the Pittsburg depot at eight o'clock.
He was a man of about thirty years, with a full brown beard and keen,
gray eyes and an alert and courteous manner. He showed us through the
Union Iron Mills, where they had begun to make and handle castings heavy
as a house by steam-power, and as easily as a lady swings her fan.
There weapons for the war with distance were being made. Bones of the
mountains were melting in great heat and running into rails and beams to
bridge the pathless fields and the river chasms.
“I want to talk with you about the rail problem,” said McCarthy.
“It's nearly solved,” said Mr. Carnegie. “The rail of the future will be
made of Bessemer steel. It can stand heat and cold and heavy pressure.
We'll be making them here as soon as possible. I think within a year or
two this company will be able to fill your orders.”
It was a warm day in April, and Mr. McCarthy and I had removed our
coats. The city was celebrating the surrender at Appomattox, and,
driving toward the depot, we came into full streets and met a procession
led by cavalry.
“I think we had better get out and take the sidewalk,” said Mr.
Carnegie.
We left the carriage, and suddenly the gentleman said, “I must go back
after my coat.”
“Why?” the other asked.
“It wouldn't be polite for me to walk in the streets without a coat.”
“Here, take mine,” said Mr. Carnegie, as he removed his own, which
McCarthy declined.
It was an odd exhibit from the old and new schools of gentlemanhood,
of the formality of Chesterfield--of which Mr. McCarthy had long been a
student--and the simplicity of Abraham Lincoln.
“Thank God, the war is over,” said Mr. Carnegie, as he went on, “but the
military spirit is everywhere, and it will die slowly. I feel it more
and more in business. Do you know that business is beginning to be a
kind of warfare in which victory is the chief end, and all is well
that leads to it? War is a crime. It sanctions murder and teaches
dishonesty.”
“I have felt the spirit you complain of,” said the hand-made gentleman.
“In my business there are scouts and spies, and I have had trouble in
which violence and threats of murder were resorted to.”
“It's the teaching of war, and battles of business are coming in which
blood will flow, and the gun and torch will play their part.”
The distinguished railroader shook his head, and his face kindled with
old Celtic fire as he thought of war's iniquity. He was unlike, and yet
very like, my friend McCarthy. They had both gone through the same hard
school of poverty, and with like endowments had reached the same high
footing. A friendship began between them of much value to both.
As we sat in the office of the young Scot he explained his signal
system, and spoke of other needs, especially of better rails and
road-beds and comfortable sleeping-cars, and the continuous trip to
Chicago. Both clearly foresaw, in part, the great things which have come
to us. I remember that McCarthy made me think him rash when he spoke of
moving hotels that would some day convey one across the continent.
They dived into the past also, and began to talk of their boyhood. We
had gone out to look at the new Woodruff sleeping-car, and dined and
returned to Mr. Carnegie's office, where we spent the evening together.
I sat by and listened to the talk of the others, and I remember well how
it thrilled me.
Carnegie had spoken of the war spirit, which had begun to show itself
in business. The brave ventures of these two had in them a touch of the
hazard-loving, heroic courage of the soldier. I thought of this, and yet
I had no suspicion that they were to be great generals in the new war.
God had armed them for the mighty struggles of peace. They had learned
that when two forces were joined something comes of it vastly greater
than their sum.
“I wish you would help me to account for you,” said McCarthy. “Tell me
how you got it all.”
“Oh, you mean this stupidity and this luck of mine,” said Carnegie, with
a smile. “It's a good deal to account for, but I'll try.
“I went into business when I was six years old--raised pigeons and
rabbits. Other boys helped me, and were rewarded by having rabbits named
after them. My hero was Wallace Bruce. Often I had to pass a graveyard
at night, and was a bit afraid of it. Then I used to say to myself that
Wallace would not be so foolish, and went on with a better heart in me.
In many a time of trouble I have asked myself what Wallace would do, and
have tried to do it.
“We came to America when I was eleven, and I began work across the
river, in Allegheny City, at one dollar and twenty cents a week. You
know this is a time of business combinations. I made one of the first on
record. It was this way: I got to be a messenger boy at two dollars and
a half a week, and learned the names of all the business firms, in
their proper order, on the leading streets. There were four of us who
delivered for the telegraph company, and each got ten cents when a
message took him beyond city limits. There was a contest between the
boys for these messages. I got them together, and suggested that the
extra fees be divided equally. We made a sort of pool, or trust, and
never quarrelled again. You see, I am at heart a peacemaker. I have
always worked along that line--putting two and two together, and
establishing harmony between them.”
“That is what Lincoln has done,” said McCarthy. “At last he has brought
the North and South together, and begun to establish harmony.”
“He is the first gentleman in the world,” said the other.
“I know he is a very great one,” said McCarthy, “but I wish he were a
little more particular in his dress and manners. I don't believe he's
read the _Letters of Lord Chesterfield_.”
“He is the modern democratic gentleman,” said Mr. Carnegie. “He has
shown us how little dress and manners have to do with it.”
Mr. Carnegie stopped, for suddenly a man had rushed in upon us.
“My God!” he sobbed, as he sank into a chair with tears running down his
cheeks, “Lincoln has been assassinated!”
Outside bells had begun tolling, and we could hear the running of many
feet.