During his incumbency as governor of New York State he always made his headquarters either at the house of my sister, Mrs. Cowles, or at my house, and many were the famous breakfast-parties at 422 Madison Avenue in those strenuous days. He was criticised for breakfasting with Mr. Platt and Mr. Odell (Mr. Platt’s associate boss), but almost all of those much-discussed meals took place at my own house, and many a time Messrs. Platt and Odell had the unusual experience of finding that they were apparently expected to sit upon one chair, as my brother had invited so many more people to breakfast than could possibly be seated at my comparatively small table. After breakfast was over, Mr. Platt would say in a rather stern manner, “And now, Governor Roosevelt, I should like to have a private word with you,” and my brother would answer, “Why, certainly, Mr. Platt, we will go right up to my sister’s library--good-by, gentlemen,” turning to his other guests, and then to Mr. Platt again, “We shall be quite private except for my sister. I always like to have her present at all my conferences. She takes so much interest in what I am doing!” This with a humorous side-glance at me, knowing how irritating my presence was to the gentleman in question. I can bear witness to the fact that through those many conferences my brother’s courtesy to the brilliant older man never failed, nor did he ever lose his independent outlook or action. My brother’s effort to work with Mr. Platt rather than against him also never failed, and many a time I have heard him say: “Mr. Platt, I would rather accept your suggestion of an appointee than that of any one else _if_ you will suggest as good and honorable a man as any one else. I _want_ to work with you and I know that your great information about Republican affairs is of enormous value to me, but I must reserve my own power of decision in all matters, although I hope always to be in accord with you.” The Rough Riders were always turning up on every occasion, or if they did not actually turn up in _propria persona_, strange letters on many and varied subjects came to my house from them. Amongst these letters one arrived when my brother was breakfasting with me one morning at my house. The mail that morning was unique in more ways than one, for another letter arrived with no name and no address on it. Instead of name and address there was a drawing of a large set of teeth, and on the reverse side of the envelope was written: “Please let Jack Smith, 211 W. 139th Street, know whether this letter reaches its destination. It is a bet and a lot of money hangs in the balance”! Those strong white teeth, which had been the terror of the recreant policemen, were quite as much a factor at the Capitol on the hill at Albany. In the same mail, as I said, came a very characteristic epistle from a Rough Rider, which ran as follows: