Saratoga in 1901 :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Here,” said Moon, stepping to the bar,
“this is the old bottle—113 years old,” and
he held up an old chunk of a green bottle, on
which was the inscription—

“Frank Waddell was a gentleman dyed in
the wool,” continued Moon, “and his bottle has
been filled more than ten thousand times with
the best rum in America. Once Sir Charles

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 628EAF. Page 055. In-line Illustrations. The first image is of a man with his arms raised above his head. The second image is of a man holding up a dead bird while another man sits and watches.] Gray sent me a cask of rum from Santa Cruz, and I had a man
go to New York and ride straddle of the bung-hole all the way
to Saratoga, and I rode in myself, astride like a jockey, from the
depot to the lake.”

Here a quiet-looking old gentleman came in and asked for the
Frank Waddell bottle.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“That's Stuart, one of the big Stuarts, sugar refiners, of
New York. Stuart knew Sam. Duncan and Frank Waddell,
for he's been here for twenty years—he's a poor man—only worth
$17,000,000!” said Moon, with a twinkle of the eye. “He likes
to come out here now, at six o'clock in the morning, for his pig
pork and brook trout.” Stuart now took a “smile” with young
Erastus Corning, of Albany, who kept a 2:46 span of bays waiting
at the door.

“Who has given the biggest dinner here in
twenty years?” I asked.

“Let's see,” said Moon, scratching his
head; “well, Watts Sherman, of Duncan,
Sherman & Co., gave the biggest dinner a few
years ago. Thirty-six in the party—and the
dinner cost $3,000. Madame Rush was one
of the party. My wife was in her prime then,
and, Lord! you ought to have seen that dinner—canvas-backs,
hot-house grapes, Johannisberger,
Roman punch, —!” and Moon
held up both hands, like a great V, while his
eyes hung out in a state of wondering bewilderment.

Now we enter the larder,
where were layers of brook
trout, reed-birds, woodcock,
partridges and black bass.

“This partridge looks like
an old fellow—he's five years
old,” said Colonel Bridgeland,
holding up an antique partridge
which one of Moon's
hunters was dressing; “what
will you do with him?”

“Oh, some of those shoddy
city fellows will come along
to-day, and they can't tell
this old hen from a chicken.
I know too much to give this old bird to one of your thoroughbred

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 628EAF. Page 056. In-line Illustration. Image of a man with his finger to his lips in the gesture if keeping a secret.] boys,” replied Moon, with a merry twinkle.