“What was good enough for that house is worth putting in mine,” he told me. “Nobody in Rumson will have anything on Uncle Mike.” But he never made use of the fixtures. He disposed of them also at a huge profit without moving them. As a result of his shrewd bargaining, Jacobs fitted his home with the best that was in the Parson’s mansion without any cost to himself. Almost everything Uncle Mike put his hands to seemed to turn to gold. Only a few of the ventures into which he entered failed to return a handsome profit. When Farr came to America, Mike asked Tommy, Ted Broadribb, several British writers and myself to visit him at Fair Haven. Proudly he took us on a tour, showing us the rare gladioli with which he had won top prizes at the State Fair; beautiful peonies and thousands of the rarest type of American Beauty roses. Just as Mike began to explain how he grew these flowers and why he was so fond of farming, a bulldog belonging to a neighbor, to whom he rented a house, tore out across the garden of roses in pursuit of a cat. The owner stopped to apologize to Mike. “You keep that hound leashed or find yourself a new place to live. Those roses are far more important to me than your rent,” Jacobs shouted. * * * * * We were on our way to Chicago—Jacobs, Hype Igoe, Murray Lewin, Jimmy Dawson, Jack Miley and myself. Mike held court in his pullman drawing room. There were midnight sandwiches, drinks, card playing, and general conversation until about three o’clock in the morning, when the party broke up and we went to our separate compartments. At six, there was a knock at my door. It was Mike. “I’m surprised you’re sleeping so late,” he said. “We’ll pull into Chicago in about three hours. Come on, let’s have some coffee.” I protested that I had only just gotten to bed. “You left my room at three didn’t you? Well, it’s six now,” he roared. I dressed and went to the diner with Mike. The chef was not ready for us, but Jacobs had no difficulty convincing him that it was in his interests to get that coffee up in a hurry, and he did. Getting up early and going after his coffee was a regular habit with Jacobs. Two nights before the Louis-Braddock fight in Chicago he was jittery and couldn’t sleep. I remained with him until about four in the morning, when I finally broke away and got to my room. Scarcely had I undressed when the telephone rang. “You’re not in bed yet, are you, Nat?” asked Mike. “Come down and we’ll have some breakfast.” I protested that I was sleepy and had three broadcasts that day and needed some rest. “What’s the matter with you guys?” he shouted. “You sleep your years away.” I yawned my way down into the coffee shop where Mike was sitting waiting for me, and we had our breakfast but no sleep. * * * * *