“You can whip 'em all into one system, from New York and Boston to Chicago. You can give us a continuous trip between these cities. You can run freight to any point in the system without rehandling on through cars, to pay each railroad according to the mileage it supplies. You would make it possible for me to sell my goods in Chicago and other distant cities and deliver 'em on time. You would quicken the pace of business. Every factory on the line would double its output in two years. It means growth and a new republic and a string of great cities, and a stream of traffic flowing east and west like a river. There are not so many tons in the St. Lawrence as your wheels would carry, and they would roll on like the waterfloods, never stopping. They would enrich you beyond the dreams of avarice.” The hand-made gentleman saw the truth clearly, and flashed the torch of his enthusiasm on all sides of it. He shook his cane over the map; his eyes glowed like a prophet's. After all this time, I can but dimly suggest the quaint dignity and the singular power of his appeal. I felt it, and have tried to remember all, since these years have complimented his insight by making history of his dreams. I recall how his ardor thrilled me, and how the Commodore rose from his knee and looked at him. “Young man,” he said, “the dreams of avarice do not bother _me_. I have money enough.” The tone of his voice made it clear to me, even, that Mr. McCarthy's talk had impressed him. “True,” said the hand-made gentleman; “but you have power, composed of brains, money, and public confidence. You're the only man who can do this thing, and it ought to be done. You _must_ do it for the sake of the country. Patriotism, and not avarice, will inspire you.” The Commodore smiled. “Boy, how old are you?” he queried. “Twenty-three years; but they count double.” “They tell me you've made some money?” “I'm getting along very well.” “Sit down a minute.” A man about thirty years of age had just entered the room. Mr. Vanderbilt turned to him. “I want you to come over and keep my books,” he said, brusquely. “But, uncle, I'm not a bookkeeper,” said the young man. “I don't know how.” “You know enough to take the money that comes in?” “Yes.” “And add up the expenses?” “Yes.” “And give me the difference?” “Yes.” “Well, that's all I want, and any d------ fool could do that. You may begin Monday. Goodnight.” The thoughts of the Commodore went straight to their mark and his words followed them. He put his right hand on the arm of Mr. McCarthy. I saw then how the grip of the oar had stiffened his fingers. “Young man, I'll think it over,” said he. “You go home and don't talk too much. What ye don't say will never do any harm. I make it a rule of my life never to talk of anything I'm going to do until I've done it.” We left the house and walked slowly in the direction of Broadway.