“I think one gentleman ought to be careful of the feelings of another,” said Mr. McCarthy. “He made me feel like a dog.”
“He was out of sorts,” I remarked.
“I have learned this,” said the hand-made gentleman: “business is war. I see it clearer every day. If you want respect you've got to fight for it.”
We recovered our composure by-and-by, and spent the rest of the day among tradesmen extending the acquaintance of Sal and the sisters of Sal.
At half-past seven we presented ourselves at the house of the Commodore at 10 Washington Square.
Mr. McCarthy carried his map under his arm, and it was about half the diameter of a piece of stove-pipe.
A servant showed us into a large parlor. We could see Mr. Vanderbilt in a room back of it, sitting by a table in his shirt-sleeves reading a newspaper. We observed him fearfully as he took our cards from the tray—plain written cards they were, save that Mr. McCarthy's had a bird on it, drawn by his secretary. He flung his paper aside and rose—a splendid figure of a man, full chest, broad shoulders, and the six feet of him straight as an arrow—and came slowly into the parlor where we sat.
“Well, sonny, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I have a map to show you,” said Mr. McCarthy.
“Where is it?” was the sharp query of the Commodore.