“Well, well,” said Mr. Gould, turning to an acquaintance, “that was hot, wasn’t it? I was very much annoyed at the delays and crowds myself and I did want to tell the man that I was not responsible for the limited number of trains. If he had not been so abusive, I would have told him that it was all Sage’s doings. He advised taking the extras off and I suffer for it. I do wish Sage could have been here, for I think I would have told that fellow all about it and let Sage get his deserts.” An illustration of the rush and hurry of Jay Gould’s life is told among the Pennsylvania mountaineers in the region round about Gouldsboro. Mr. Gould’s father was superintendent of the tannery at Canadensis, which was the property of his son, and received therefor the salary of $20 per week, which in those parts placed him high up in the category of the well to do. Canadensis is four and a half miles from the railroad station at Cresco on the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western railroad, and the road between is a rough mountain road not fitted for fast speeding. When the old man died Jay Gould was summoned by telegraph. He reached Cresco in a great hurry. Business matters were pressing and he had no time to waste. He hired a rig and told the owner to drive him over to Canadensis and back in time to catch the next train back to New York. The owner shook his head. “Go ahead,” said Gould. “I’ll pay the damage.” The horse was put to its utmost speed and Gould had just one hour and a half to devote to preparations for his father’s funeral. Then he drove back to Cresco and caught his train, but he drove so fast that the horse died from overexertion. Gould made good the value to the owner without complaint. Pacific Mail was always one of Mr. Gould’s speculative favorites. He had been more or less directly identified with it ever since the time when A. B. Stockwell was its picturesque controller. Stockwell is the historic gentleman who, in reciting the story of his Wall street career, has graphically put in this way: “When I first came to Wall street I had $10,000, and the brokers called me ‘Stockwell.’ I scooped some profits, and it was ‘Mr. Stockwell.’ I got to dealing in a thousand shares at a time, and they hailed me as ‘Captain Stockwell.’ I went heavily into Pacific Mail, and folks lifted their hats to ‘Commodore Stockwell.’ “Then one day Jay Gould came along, smash went Pacific Mail and I went with it. They did not call me ‘Commodore Stockwell’ after that. Then it was: ‘The red-headed son of a gun from Ohio.’”