“There was something peculiar about his work--I don’t recollect what now--but it led to a somewhat long debate. This was terminated by Mr. Sage, who said as he always did when in doubt: ‘Well, we will leave the matter to Mr. Gould.’ When Mr. Gould came in the matter was referred to him with the explanation of the debate and the points of difference. Mr. Gould took up the report and read it through. Then he read the request for an increase. When he had finished he turned and said: ‘Gentlemen, is there any of you who would like to do the work that man has done for $2,400 a year?’ “Every man shook his head. ‘Neither would I,’ remarked Mr. Gould. ‘If he can do all this work he is certainly entitled to this $3,600 he asks, and we get off cheaply at that in having a faithful, honest and most capable employe.’” Among other stories told of Mr. Gould are the following: Some years ago he was tendered the nomination of Rex, the king of the Mardi Gras carnival in New Orleans. He declined this, of course, and when asked jokingly by a friend why he had put ambition away, remarked dryly: “Well, I don’t think the nomination was entirely disinterested or that I would have reigned supreme. I have always heard that there was ‘a power behind the throne,’ and in this case I am sure of it.” With this he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth the letter notifying him of his selection to the high office. Enclosed in it was a bill for $1,000, the price of the honor. The functions of Rex that year were performed by a St. Louis brewer. Mr. Gould could never accustom himself to take with equanimity the criticism and abuse that were heaped upon his head. He was exceedingly sensitive of ridicule and loathed the term “Little Wizard,” by which he was not infrequently designated by the Wall street men and the papers. He often heard himself most grossly abused. Once, it is related, during a particularly vexatious series of delays to a crowded elevated railroad train in which Mr. Gould happened to be, a tall, muscular individual broke out into a torrent. “It’s ridiculous,” he shouted. “The accommodations on this road. Absurd! Scandalous! That man Gould won’t put on an extra car. Valuable franchise for a song, but an extra train means a dollar less or so in profits. It’s a shame, and I’d like to have that little rat Gould here to tell him and then pull his nose.” Mr. Gould stood by the blusterer’s side almost crushed in the crowd. He said nothing, however, and the man continued his outburst until he reached a station, where he left the car, after pronouncing a final malediction upon Gould’s head.