Upon my second visit I was deeply impressed by the sight of a fine passenger engine, a duplicate of the great 999 of the New York Central, of those days. It stood on brass rails laid along an old library shelf that had probably belonged to the previous occupant of the studio. This engine was a splendid object to look upon, strong, heavy, silent-running, with the fineness and grace of a perfect sewing-machine. It was duly trimmed with brass and nickel, after the manner of the great "flyers," and seemed so sturdy and powerful that one could not restrain the desire to see it run. "How do you like that?" S---- exclaimed when he saw me looking at it. "It's splendid," I said. "See how she runs," he exclaimed, moving it up and down. "No noise about that." He fairly caressed the mechanism with his hand, and went off into a most careful analysis of its qualities. "I could build that engine," he exclaimed at last, enthusiastically, "if I were down in the Baldwin Company's place. I could make her break the record." "I haven't the slightest doubt in the world," I answered. This engine was a source of great expense to him, as well as the chief point in a fine scheme. He had made brass rails for it--sufficient to extend about the four sides of the studio--something like seventy feet. He had made most handsome passenger-cars with full equipment of brakes, vestibules, Pintsch gas, and so on, and had painted on their sides "The Great Pullman Line." One day, when we were quite friendly, he brought from his home all the rails, in a carpet-bag, and gave an exhibition of his engine's speed, attaching the cars and getting up sufficient steam to cause the engine to race about the room at a rate which was actually exciting. He had an arrangement by which it would pick up water and stop automatically. It was on this occasion that he confided what he called his great biograph scheme, the then forerunner of the latter day moving pictures. It was all so new then, almost a rumor, like that of the flying machine before it was invented. "I propose to let the people see the photographic representation of an actual wreck--engine, cars, people, all tumbled down together after a collision, and no imitation, either--the actual thing." "How do you propose to do it?" I asked. "Well, that's the thing," he said, banteringly. "Now, how do you suppose I'd do it?" "Hire a railroad to have a wreck and kill a few people," I suggested. "Well, I've got a better thing than that. A railroad couldn't plan anything more real than mine will be." I was intensely curious because of the novelty of the thing at that time. The "Biograph" was in its infancy. "This is it," he exclaimed suddenly. "You see how realistic this engine is, don't you?" I acknowledged that I did.