As I remember now, I spoke about him later to a friend, Mr. J.A. Naugle, the general manager of the Sonora Railway. At any rate, McLuckie got a job with the railway at driving wells, and made a great success of it. A year later, or perhaps it was in the autumn of the same year, I again met him at Guaymas, where he was superintending some repairs on his machinery at the railway shops. He was much changed for the better, seemed happy, and to add to his contentment, had taken unto himself a Mexican wife. And now that his sky was cleared, I was anxious to tell him the truth about my offer that he might not think unjustly of those who had been compelled to fight him. So before I left him, I said, "McLuckie, I want you to know now that the money I offered you was not mine. That was Andrew Carnegie's money. It was his offer, made through me." McLuckie was fairly stunned, and all he could say was: "Well, that was damned white of Andy, wasn't it?" I would rather risk that verdict of McLuckie's as a passport to Paradise than all the theological dogmas invented by man. I knew McLuckie well as a good fellow. It was said his property in Homestead was worth thirty thousand dollars. He was under arrest for the shooting of the police officers because he was the burgomaster, and also the chairman of the Men's Committee of Homestead. He had to fly, leaving all behind him. After this story got into print, the following skit appeared in the newspapers because I had declared I'd rather have McLuckie's few words on my tombstone than any other inscription, for it indicated I had been kind to one of our workmen: "JUST BY THE WAY" SANDY ON ANDY Oh! hae ye heared what Andy's spiered to hae upo' his tomb, When a' his gowd is gie'n awa an' Death has sealed his doom! Nae Scriptur' line wi' tribute fine that dealers aye keep handy, But juist this irreleegious screed--"That's damned white of Andy!" The gude Scot laughs at epitaphs that are but meant to flatter, But never are was sae profane, an' that's nae laughin' matter. Yet, gin he gies his siller all awa, mon, he's a dandy, An' we'll admit his right to it, for "That's damned white of Andy!" There's not to be a "big, big D," an' then a dash thereafter, For Andy would na spoil the word by trying to make it safter; He's not the lad to juggle terms, or soothing speech to bandy. A blunt, straightforward mon is he--an' "That's damned white of Andy!" Sae when he's deid, we'll gie good heed, an' write it as he askit; We'll carve it on his headstone an' we'll stamp it on his casket: "Wha dees rich, dees disgraced," says he, an' sure's my name is Sandy, 'T wull be nae rich man that he'll dee--an' "That's damned white of Andy!"[43]