I

XXXI

SOMETIMES wish I had stayed in the

steamboat business and let Wall Street

alone. I'd have made money in a more steady way and without the risk. Steamboats are not so liable to ups and downs as stocks are. And at this time I was earning from my steamboats alone enough money to have made me in time a man of comfortable means.

But the trouble with business of that kind is, there are so many little things to look after, which keep you on the go well-nigh all the time. Because the profits from a business line are made up of a lot of small profits; and each detail is liable to leak money unless you look out.

For instance, there was the one item of the bar, on my steamboats. Going into the bar one day on the steamboat Drew, who should I see there but the Captain of the boat taking a drink. I was going to be mad at first, and stood watching him in order to think what I should do. He stood very cool, finished his glass, put it down, and then paid the bartender a quarter. When I saw that, I wasn't so mad.

"Do the employees on the boat pay every time they get anything from the bar?" I asked.

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Always," said he; "at least I do. In fact, Mr. Drew, I find it a very good way to keep in check a natural propensity of mine which might otherwise grow into something inconvenient." I was glad to know that he always paid; but the incident merely shows the many leaks that could occur in a business as big as this steamboat business of mine, if a fellow were to follow it up as a life pursuit.

Then, also, there is the bother which small business matters bring you. I had a lawsuit hanging over my head for years over the sale of the steamboat, Francis Skiddy. It belonged to the line which went from New York to Troy. I sold it to the People's Line. In reality I was buyer and seller too. Because I owned a controlling interest in both lines, and so could make the seller sell, and the buyer buy. Well, some of the smaller Skiddy stock-holders got mad at the transaction and sued me for damages. Because on the last trip of that boat, just before she was going to be delivered to the People's Line, she ran on a rock off of Statt's Landing, and ripped a hole in her bottom sixteen feet long and three planks wide. This, of course, lowered now by a good deal the selling value of the boat. And yet gave me the thing I wanted out of her, the engine. This was still undamaged, and could now be transferred into another boat, and at a reasonable figure. I

had been wanting the Skiddy engine for this other boat a long time back. I gave out that her running on the rocks just at this time when the sale was about to be made, was an accident which I hadn't had anything to do with. But her stock-holders made a big fuss. They went into court and sued me for sixty thousand dollars. The thing dragged and dragged, and now finally the court has made me pay it. It merely shows the vexations of spirit that come when you are in a business line.

I like Wall Street because you stand a chance of making money there so much faster than you can in the slow-poke ways of regular business. One turn of two or three points in shares will, if you are on the right side and have put out a big enough line, net you as much money in six days as an ordinary business would in six months. By this time I had got so that I knew all the ins and outs of Wall Street. There are trade secrets in every calling. The newcomer is always at a discount compared to the old veteran. I found that many times now I could turn this expert knowledge of mine to account. One morning, I remember, I was riding down to the Street in the carriage of a young stock operator who had taken me in with him, to save paying fare in the Broadway stage. He knew that I was on the inside of some of the big stock-market operations, and he thought he might get some inside tips. I had looked for something of the sort to occur. It's a

caution the way outsiders hang around people who are on the inside. The flies get at you when you're covered with honey. Whilst we were driving down Broadway he pumped and pumped; but I was as dumb as a heifer. I made believe there were big things just then under way which we, who were on the inside, didn't want other people to get onto. Well, when we reached the Street, and he had got the carriage stopped in front of my office, I opened the door and stepped out. In doing so, I contrived to bump my hat against the top of the doorway. It was a black felt hat. (I like black felt for a hat. It's so durable. You can wear one several years before it begins to show signs of wear.) My hat fell off, and some pieces of paper fell out. On those pieces of paper I had written what seemed to be orders to my brokers: "Buy 500 Erie, at 68." "Buy 1,000 at 67. Buy 2,000 Erie at the market." "Buy 3,000 Erie at 671," and such-like. Of course, as they spread over the floor of the carriage, he or any one else couldn't help but see what they were, and read them. I made believe I was awfully put out to have the secret given away like that. I made a scramble as though to gather them up before any one should see them; then I said good-bye and went into my office.

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I calculated he would most likely act on the hint. And he did. He drove rapidly to his office. He told his crowd of the discovery he had made.

"A

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big Bulling movement in Erie is on! The old man (that's what they sometimes called me) “is buying Erie! A campaign is under way. Boys, we must get in on this!" So he bought a block of five thousand shares of Erie. The rest of his crowd followed him. Their combined buying forced Erie up point after point.

That was what I had been looking for. I had been wanting for some time back to find a buyer for some of my surplus stock. Now it was coming my way fine. I immediately dumped onto the market all the Erie it would stand. I succeeded in disposing of a large share of my holdings at the top figure. Then of course the market broke. It sagged four points in the next two days. My broker friend and his crowd were badly caught.

He came to me with said how he had been

a face as long as your arm; led to believe that there was going to be an upward movement in Erie; he had bought heavily; and now it had all gone to smash. "Uncle, what in the world shall I do ?"

I told him he could do anything he pleased. And I couldn't keep from chuckling at the fine way I had got him to gobble the bait. In fact I always did like a joke. So much so that they got to calling me the "Merry Old Gentleman of Wall Street." They had other names for me, too; such as, "the Speculative Director," "the Big Bear," "the Old Man of the Street" and so on. Some of these