One day the optimistic Oscar came into my office with his serious, flat-footed walk, his French silk hat on his head, and his eternal cigar between his fingers. He had just completed the Harlem Opera House on West One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, and he told me that, for his success there, it was essential to have also a theatre on the East Side, and he negotiated for the eight lots that we had collected on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street near Park Avenue. We spent several hours arranging the details of the lease of our property, with privilege to buy, which was what he wanted. He argued me into giving it to him on a 4 per cent. basis while the building was being constructed. When he was all through, I said: “Do not think that you have deceived me as to your real aim. You want to secure this property and pay down as little as possible until your building is completed! All of us who own property on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street between Seventh and Eighth avenues greatly appreciate the fine theatre you put there, and the consequent increase in the value of our property, and I am therefore willing to help you make this enterprise a success. I will at once give you a deed, and as there is no broker in the transaction, you need only pay the equivalent of six months’ rent on account of the purchase price.” Hammerstein gratefully accepted the offer and, subsequently, told me how he financed that entire operation without any capital. He struck a sand-pit and saved all costs of excavation, besides realizing over $30,000 for the sand. That furnished him nearly all the cash for the building. A little later Hammerstein got into difficulties about an office building next to the Harlem Opera House. He wanted to borrow $25,000 on a second mortgage. He practically put a pistol to my head, and said: “You folks must lend me this money, or I can’t finish the building--and that will force me into bankruptcy.” I looked at him and saw not the optimistic Oscar, but the harried Hammerstein. He went on: “You don’t know what that will mean. If I go into bankruptcy, the Bank of Harlem will also have to go. I owe them over $50,000 and they have agreed that, if I can finish the building, they will buy it from me, giving me back my notes in part payment.” “But that bank,” I protested, “has only $100,000 capital! How could it lend you $50,000?” “One day,” he said, “as I was seated in my little office underneath the steps of the Harlem Opera House, the president of the Bank broke in, and leaning over my shoulder, handed me a blank note, and asked me, for God’s sake, to make it out to the order of the Bank for $10,000. ‘Don’t ask any questions,’ he whispered, ‘but just do what I want, and do it quick.’ I complied with his request, I didn’t stop to put on my hat and coat, but followed him to the Bank; and just as I expected, there were the bank-examiners!”