"We'll go tomorrow," he said. "Can you be around here by ten o'clock?"
Ten the next morning saw me promptly at the studio, and five minutes
later we were off.
When we arrived at Long Island City we went to the first convenient arm
of the sea and undid the precious fighters, in which he much delighted.
After studying the contour of the little inlet for a few moments he took
some measurements with a tape-line, stuck up two twigs in two places for
guide posts, and proceeded to fire and get up steam in his war-ships.
Afterwards he set the rudders, and then took them to the water-side and
floated them at the points where he had placed the twigs.
These few details accomplished, he again studied the situation
carefully, headed the vessels to the fraction of an inch toward a
certain point of the opposite shore, and began testing the steam.
"When I say ready, you push this lever here," he said, indicating a
little brass handle fastened to the stern-post. "Don't let her move an
inch until you do that. You'll see some tall firing."
He hastened to the other side where his own boat was anchored, and began
an excited examination. He was like a school-boy with a fine toy.
At a word, I moved the lever as requested, and the two vessels began
steaming out toward one another. Their weight and speed were such that
the light wind blowing affected them not in the least, and their prows
struck with an audible crack. This threw them side by side, steaming
head on together. At the same time it operated to set in motion their
guns, which fired broadsides in such rapid succession as to give a
suggestion of rapid revolver practice. Quite a smoke rose, and when it
rolled away one of the vessels was already nearly under water and the
other was keeling with the inflow of water from the port side. S---- lost
no time, but throwing off his coat, jumped in and swam to the rescue.
Throughout this entire incident his manner was that of an enthusiastic
boy who had something exceedingly novel. He did not laugh. In all our
acquaintance I never once heard him give a sound, hearty laugh. Instead
he cackled. His delight apparently could only express itself in that
way. In the main it showed itself in an excess of sharp movements, short
verbal expressions, gleams of the eye.
I saw from this the man's delight in the science of engineering, and
humored him in it. He was thereafter at the greatest pains to show all
that he had under way in the mechanical line, and schemes he had for
enjoying himself in this work in the future. It seemed rather a
recreation for him than anything else. Like him, I could not help
delighting in the perfect toys which he created, but the intricate
details and slow process of manufacture were brain-racking. For not only
would he draw the engine in all its parts, but he would buy the raw
material and cast and drill and polish each separate part.
Upon my second visit I was deeply impressed by the sight of a fine
passenger engine, a duplicate of the great 999 of the New York Central,
of those days. It stood on brass rails laid along an old library shelf
that had probably belonged to the previous occupant of the studio. This
engine was a splendid object to look upon, strong, heavy,
silent-running, with the fineness and grace of a perfect sewing-machine.
It was duly trimmed with brass and nickel, after the manner of the great
"flyers," and seemed so sturdy and powerful that one could not restrain
the desire to see it run.
"How do you like that?" S---- exclaimed when he saw me looking at it.
"It's splendid," I said.
"See how she runs," he exclaimed, moving it up and down. "No noise about
that."
He fairly caressed the mechanism with his hand, and went off into a most
careful analysis of its qualities.
"I could build that engine," he exclaimed at last, enthusiastically, "if
I were down in the Baldwin Company's place. I could make her break the
record."
"I haven't the slightest doubt in the world," I answered.
This engine was a source of great expense to him, as well as the chief
point in a fine scheme. He had made brass rails for it--sufficient to
extend about the four sides of the studio--something like seventy feet.
He had made most handsome passenger-cars with full equipment of brakes,
vestibules, Pintsch gas, and so on, and had painted on their sides "The
Great Pullman Line." One day, when we were quite friendly, he brought
from his home all the rails, in a carpet-bag, and gave an exhibition of
his engine's speed, attaching the cars and getting up sufficient steam
to cause the engine to race about the room at a rate which was actually
exciting. He had an arrangement by which it would pick up water and stop
automatically. It was on this occasion that he confided what he called
his great biograph scheme, the then forerunner of the latter day moving
pictures. It was all so new then, almost a rumor, like that of the
flying machine before it was invented.
"I propose to let the people see the photographic representation of an
actual wreck--engine, cars, people, all tumbled down together after a
collision, and no imitation, either--the actual thing."
"How do you propose to do it?" I asked.
"Well, that's the thing," he said, banteringly. "Now, how do you suppose
I'd do it?"
"Hire a railroad to have a wreck and kill a few people," I suggested.
"Well, I've got a better thing than that. A railroad couldn't plan
anything more real than mine will be."
I was intensely curious because of the novelty of the thing at that
time. The "Biograph" was in its infancy.
"This is it," he exclaimed suddenly. "You see how realistic this engine
is, don't you?"