Once again I had seen Mr. Vanderbilt when his famous Mountain Gal was to race near Coney Island. I took the horse-cars in Brooklyn, and went as far as they would carry me on my way to the track, and tramped down the road while others raced along in every kind of vehicle. It was after the hour, and the crowd had passed me, and I had not far to go, when along came the Commodore in his gig. I raised my hat to him, and he pulled up beside me. “Have a ride, boy?” he asked. I thanked him and got in, and away we sped. “Going to the race?” he inquired. “Yes, sir. I want to see your horse go.” “You know me?” “Yes. You remember the big map?” “Oh, I see you was somebody I knew. Great boy--that young Irishman. He'll make his mark. Have you a ticket?” “No,” I said. “Never mind; I'll fix it.” So I entered with him in his gig, and he took me to the club-house and found a seat for me. Next day I returned to my home in Hearts-dale, and hoped while there to go to Merrifield and see the Colonel and Jo. I was much taken down to learn from my sister that they had sailed for Liverpool the day before. I was ready for my career at Rushwater, and my mother and sister were going to live with me in a snug house which the hand-made gentleman had built and furnished for us. I called upon Judge Crocket and presented my compliments. Mr. Boggs and the soldiers were playing old sledge in a corner. All eyes were turned upon me. The Judge asked how I was getting along, and greeted my answer with a little smile of incredulity. His smiles at time had the gleam of steel and cut like a chisel; but I wanted to make friends, and said: “I have thought it over, and made up my mind that you were very kind to me.” “Oh, you have!” he answered, as if caring little what I thought. Now I had meant to be polite, but his indifference stung me, and I added: “Yes; you sent me out of bad business and worse company. I am grateful. You men who live in the shadow of death don't know how pleasant the world is. I want to thank you.” Judge Crocket began to carve the air with his chisel. “You're a scamp, sir,” he declared. “You wrote that 'scurrilious' poem about the dance at Jones'. It was an outrage--an outrage!” “I deserve no such credit,” was my answer. “I did not write the poem, and, if it hurt your feelings, I am glad that I know nothing of its authorship. But you have no right to complain. For years you have been cutting people to the bone with sharp criticism. You seem to think well of no one. You have said things about me that were undeserved and scandalous.” The Judge had resumed his cutting, and the wrinkles in his face had deepened, but he made no answer. Mr. Boggs nudged his neighbor and looked up at me with a smile, in which amusement was mingled with contempt. I left the shop, and found Swipes and some of our old companions waiting for me outside the door. Swipes had grown so that I scarcely knew him. “How are you and the shingle-nail?” I asked.