 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
THE FUNNY SIDE OF FISK.
A QUEER MAN.
Yes, Colonel Fisk was a funny man, and a man
always full of humor could not have been a very bad
man at heart.
Once I had occasion to spend an hour with the
Colonel in his palatial Erie office, and a record of
that hour I then wrote out. Fisk was being shaved as
I entered, and his face was half-covered with foaming
lather. Just then some one came in and told him that
the gentlemen in the office had made up a purse of
$34 to be presented to little Peter, Fisk's favorite little
office boy.
“All right,” said the Colonel, smiling and wiping the
lather from his face. “Call in Peter.”
In a moment little Peter entered
with a shy look and seemingly half
frightened.
“Well, Peter,” said the Colonel, as
he held the envelope with the money
in one hand and the towel in the
other, “what did you mean, sir, by
absenting yourself from the Erie Office, the other day,
when both Mr. Gould and I were away, and had left
the whole mass of business on your shoulders?”
Then he frowned fearfully, while Peter trembled from
head to foot.
“But, my boy,” continued Fisk, “I will not blame
you; there may be extenuating circumstances. Evil
associates may have tempted you away. Here, Peter,
take this (handing him the $34), and henceforth let your
life be one of rectitude—quiet rectitude, Peter. Behold
me, Peter, and remember that evil communications
are not always the best policy, but that honesty is worth
two in the bush.”
As Peter went back to his place beside the outside
door everybody laughed, and Fisk sat down again to
have the other side of his face shaved.
Pretty quick in came a little dried-up
old gentleman, with keen gray eyes surmounted
by an overpowering Panama hat.
The Erie Railway office was then the
old gentleman's almost daily rendezvous.
Here he would sit for hours at a time,
and peer out from under his broadbrim at the wonderful
movements of Colonel Fisk. Cautious, because he
could move but slowly, this venerable gentleman, who
has made Wall Street tremble, hitched up to the gold
indicator, all the time keeping one eye on the quotations
and the other on the Colonel. As a feeler, he ventured
to ask:
“How is Lake Shore this morning, Colonel?”
“Peter,” said Fisk, with awful gravity, “communicate
with the Great American Speculator and show
him how they are dealing on the street!”
The old man chuckled, Gould hid a smile while
of the running wire with Daniel Drew. It was the
beginning and the ending — youth and experience —
simplicity and shrewdness—Peter and Daniel!
Little Peter was about ten years old, and small at
that. Frequently large men would come into the Erie
office and “bore” the Colonel. Then he would say:
“Here, Peter, take this man into custody, and hold
him under arrest until we send for him!”
“You seem very busy to-day?” I remarked, handing
the Colonel a cigar.
“Yes, Eli,” said Fisk, smiling. “I'm trying to find
out from all these papers where Gould gets money
enough to pay his income tax. He never has any
money—fact, sir! He even wanted to borrow of me
to pay his income tax last summer, and I lent him four
hundred dollars, and that's gone, too! This income
business will be the ruination of Gould.” Here the
venerable Daniel Drew concealed a laugh, and Gould
turned clear around, so that Fisk could only see the
back of his head, while his eyes twinkled in enjoyment
of the Colonel's fun.
“What will be the end of putting down the railroad
fares, Colonel?” I asked, referring to the jealous opposition
in fares then existing between the Erie and
New York Central.
“End! why we haven't begun yet. We intend to
carry passengers through to Chicago, before we get
through, two for a cent and feed them on the way;
and when old Van does the same the public will go
on his road just to spite him!”
“Of course, the Erie is the best road,” continued
Fisk, in his Munchausen way. “It runs faster and
smoother. When Judge Porter went up with me in
the Directors' car, last winter, we passed 200 canal
boats, about a mile apart, on the Delaware and Hudson
canal. The train went so fast that the Judge
came back and reported that he saw one gigantic
canal boat ten miles long! Fact, sir! We went so
fast the Judge couldn't see the gaps!”
“Are the other railroads going to help you in this
fight?” I asked.
“Why, yes, they say they will; but they are all
afraid to do anything till we get Vanderbilt tied fast.
Do you want me to tell you who these other half-scared
railroad fellows, Garrett and Tom Scott, remind
me of?” asked the Colonel, leaning himself forward,
with his elbows on his knees.
“Yes; who, Colonel?”
“Well, Scott and Garrett remind me of the old
Texas ranchman, whose neighbors had caught a noted
cattle-thief. After catching him, they tied him to a
tree, hands and feet, and each one gave him a terrible
cowhiding. When tired of walloping him, they left
the poor thief tied to the tree, head and foot. He
remained tied up there a good while in great agony,
till by and by he saw with delight a strange man
coming along.
“`Who are you?' said the kindly-looking stranger.
“`I'm Bill Smith, and I've been whipped almost
to death,' said the man in a pitiful tone.
“`Ah, Bill Smith, how could they whip you—a poor
lone man?' asked the sympathizing stranger.
“`Why, don't you see? I'm tied.'
“`What, did they tie you up?'
“`Yes, tied me tight. Don't you see the strings
now?'
“`Poor man! How could they be so cruel?' sighed
the stranger.
“`But I'm tied now,' groaned the man.
“`What! tied now—tied so you can't move this
very moment, Bill?' asked the stranger, eagerly examining
the ropes.
“`Yes, tied tight, hands and feet, and I can't move
a muscle,' said the thief, pitifully.
“`Well, William, as you are tied tight, I don't mind
if I give you a few licks myself for that horse you
stole from me,' said the stranger, cutting a tremendous
whip from a bunch of thorn bushes.' Then,” said Fisk,
“he flogged him awhile, just as all these small railroad
fellows would like to flog Vanderbilt if he was well
tied.”
But, alas, they never get Vanderbilt tied.
FISK AND MONTALAND.
When Montaland got on from Paris, last year, Fisk
had just said farewell to “Josie,” and so he took
extra pains to make a good impression on his beautiful
prima donna.
On the first sunshiny afternoon after Montaland
had seen the Wonderful Opera House, Fisk took her
out to the Park behind his magnificent six-in-hand.
A. T. Stewart's marble house.
“Vat ees zat?” she asked, in broken French.
“Why, that is my city residence,” said Fisk, with an
air of profound composure.
“C'est magnifique—c'est grande!” repeated Montaland,
in admiration.
Soon they came to Central Park.
“Vat ees zees place?” asked Montaland.
“O, this is my country seat; these are my grounds—
my cattle and buffaloes, and those sheep over there
compose my pet sheepfold,” said Fisk, twirling the
end of his mustache à la Napoleon.
“C'est tres magnifique!” exclaimed Montaland in
bewilderment. “Mr. Feesk is one grand Américain!”
By-and-by they rode back and down Broadway,
by the Domestic Sewing Machine building.
“And is zees your grand maison, too?” asked Montaland,
as she pointed up to the iron palace.
“No, Miss Montaland; to be frank with you, that
building does not belong to me,” said Fisk, as he
settled back with his hand in his bosom—“that belongs
to Mr. Gould!”
FISK DEAD.
One day I called at the Erie office. Col. Fisk's
old chair was vacant, and his desk was draped in
mourning. Fisk's remains lay cold and stiff, just as
he fell at the Grand Central, pierced by the fatal bullet
from Stokes's pistol. His old associates were silent,
or gathered in groups to tell over reminiscences of the
by his companions.
Mr. Gould never tired in telling about Fisk's good
qualities. Even while he was telling the quaintest
anecdotes about his dead partner, his eyes would glisten
with tears.
“One day,” said Mr. Gould, “Fisk came to me and
told me confidentially about his first mistake in life.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“Well,” said Gould, as he laughed and wiped his
eyes alternately, “Fisk said that when he was an innocent
little boy, living on his father's farm up at
Brattleboro, Vermont, his father took him into the
stable one day, where a row of cows stood in their
uncleaned stalls.
“Said he, `James, the stable window is pretty high
for a boy, but do you think you could take this shovel
and clean out the stable?'
“`I don't know, Pop,' says I; `I never have done
it.'
“`Well, my boy, if you will do it this morning, I'll
give you this bright silver dollar,' said my father, patting
me on my head, while he held the silver dollar
before my eyes.
“`Good,' says I; `I'll try,' and then I went to work.
I tugged and pulled and lifted and puffed, and finally
it was done, and father gave me the bright silver dollar,
saying:
“`That's right, James; you did it splendidly, and
now I find you can do it so nicely, I shall have you
do it every morning all winter.”'
CHARITY.
One day a poor, plain, blunt man stumbled into
Fisk's room. Said he:
“Colonel, I've heard you are a generous man, and
I've come to ask a great favor.”
“Well, what is it, my good man?” asked Fisk.
“I want to go to Lowell, sir, to my wife, and I
haven't a cent of money in the world,” said the man,
in a firm, manly voice.
“Where have you been?” asked the Colonel, dropping
his pen.
“I don't want to tell you,” replied the man, dropping
his head.
“Out with it, my man, where have you been?” said
Fisk.
“Well, sir, I've been to Sing Sing State Prison.”
“What for?”
“Grand larceny, sir. I was put in for five years,
but was pardoned out yesterday, after staying four
years and one-half. I am here, hungry and without
money.”
“All right, my man,” said Fisk, kindly, “you shall
have a pass, and here—here is $5. Go and get a meal
of victuals, and then ride down to the boat in an Erie
coach, like a gentleman. Commence life again, and if
you are honest and want a lift come to me.”
Perfectly bewildered, the poor convict took the
money, and six months afterward Fisk got a letter
from him. He was doing a thriving mercantile business,
and said Fisk's kindness and cheering words gave
a man.
BLACK AND WHITE.
Ten minutes after the poor convict left, a poor
young negro preacher called.
“What do you want? Are you from Sing Sing,
too?” asked Fisk.
“No, sir; I'm a Baptist preacher from Hoboken. I
want to go to the Howard Seminary in Washington,”
said the negro.
“All right, Brother Johnson,” said Fisk. “Here,
Comer,” he said, addressing his secretary, “give Brother
Johnson $20, and charge it to Charity,” and the
Colonel went on writing, without listening to the stream
of thanks from the delighted negro.
DON'T COUNT CHARITY.
One day the Colonel was walking up Twenty-third
street to dine with one of the Erie directors, when a
poor beggar came along. The beggar followed after
them, saying, in a plaintive tone, “Please give me a
dime, gentlemen?”
The gentleman accompanying Fisk took out a roll of
bills and commenced to unroll them, thinking to find
a half or a quarter.
“Here, man!” said Fisk, seizing the whole roll and
throwing it on the sidewalk, “take the pile.”
Then looking into the blank face of his friend, he
said, “Thunderation, Sam, you never count charity,
do you!”
“But, great guns, Colonel, there was $20 in that
roll,” exclaimed the astonished gentleman.
“Never mind,” said Fisk, “then I'll stand the supper
to-night.”
GRAVEYARD FENCE.
Somebody in Brattleboro came down to New York
to ask Fisk for a donation to help them build a new
fence around the graveyard where he is now buried.
“What in thunder do you want a new fence for?”
exclaimed the Colonel. “Why, that old fence will
keep the dead people in, and live people will keep out
as long as they can, any way!”
FISK'S LAST JOKE.
The day before Fisk was shot he came into the
office, and after looking over some interest account, he
shouted, “Gould! Gould!”
“Well, what?” says Gould, stroking his jetty
whiskers.
“I want to know how you go to work to figure
this interest so that it amounts to more than the
principal?” said the Colonel.
MISERABLE FISK!
What a miserable reprobate the preachers all make
Fisk out to be! And they are right. Why, the
scoundrel actually stopped his coupé one cold, dreary
night on Seventh avenue, and got out, inquired where
she lived, and gave a poor old beggar woman a dollar!
next day the debauched wretch sent her around a
barrel of flour and a load of coal. One day the
black-hearted scoundrel sent ten dollars and a bag of
flour around to a widow woman with three starving
children; and, not content with this, the remorseless
wretch told the police captain to look after all the
poor widows and orphans in his ward and send them
to him when they deserved charity. What a shameless
performance it was to give that poor negro preacher
$20 and send him on to Howard University! And
how the black-hearted villain practiced his meanness
on the poor, penniless old woman who wanted to go
to Boston, by paying her passage and actually escorting
her to a free state-room, while the old woman's
tears of gratitude were streaming down her cheeks!
Oh! insatiate monster! thus to give money to penniless
negro preachers and starving women and children!
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |