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THE BOOK OF DANIEL DREW

The Book of Daniel Drew

I

M

EMORIES — that's what this thing is going to be. What I remember I'll

put

down. What I don't remember I won't put down. Or else I'll put it down cautious-like, so you'll know it isn't real gospel but only a sort of think-so. For after going on eighty years, a fellow gets a little mite rusty as to some of the goods packed away in his upper story. Whenever I talked with people I didn't jot it down word for word. Therefore it's only the gist of it that you get here in these papers.

Anyhow I never was much at writer-work. Jay was the boy for that. I mean Jason Gould. (He got to calling himself “ Jay,” and so the rest of us called him by that name, too.) In our doings — I mean, the doings of Jim Fisk, Jay Gould and me, for we were in a partnership together a long time — Jay would do most of the writer-work. “Jay, you're the ink slinger,” Jimmy would say to him, and would pull him up to the table and slap a pen in his hand. He would do it so rough that Jay, who is a slip of a man, would wince. But Jimmy

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