Once again I had seen Mr. Vanderbilt when his famous Mountain Gal was to race near Coney Island. I took the horse-cars in Brooklyn, and went as far as they would carry me on my way to the track, and tramped down the road while others raced along in every kind of vehicle. It was after the hour, and the crowd had passed me, and I had not far to go, when along came the Commodore in his gig. I raised my hat to him, and he pulled up beside me.
“Have a ride, boy?” he asked.
I thanked him and got in, and away we sped. “Going to the race?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir. I want to see your horse go.”
“You know me?”
“Yes. You remember the big map?”
“Oh, I see you was somebody I knew. Great boy—that young Irishman. He'll make his mark. Have you a ticket?”
“No,” I said.
“Never mind; I'll fix it.”
So I entered with him in his gig, and he took me to the club-house and found a seat for me.