“Mr. Vanderbilt, that wagon is worth its weight in diamonds.” We looked into his glowing eyes, and he went on: “Let me tell you why. If brains, rightly stimulated, can reduce the weight of a road-wagon without any loss of strength, let's see what they can do with our big, clumsy freight and passenger cars. If we could take a hundred pounds off every car in the country, think what it would mean. That weight could be turned from expense into income. Think of the saving in power and fuel. It would mean millions of dollars!”
“Well, boy, go to work on that proposition,” said the Commodore. “I'll give you a dollar for every pound you save on every car that runs over my tracks. I wish to God that my boy Bill had your push!”
“You are very kind, sir,” said McCarthy.
“Look out for the weight of your head,” Mr.
Vanderbilt continued; “it's your freight-car—remember that—and you don't want to carry any sap in it. Let me tell you a story: Bill is a fat, good-natured cuss, and wants to take it easy, like all boys with a rich father. I told him that I wouldn't have him loafing around, and I sent him down on the farm and put him to work there, and Bill is getting along. He played a good joke on me, and I've made up my mind that he'll do for the railroad business.
“He says to me the other day, 'Father, I need some manure for the farm.'
“'Well, boy, how much do you want?' I says. “'Seven or eight loads,' says he.
“'How much 'll you pay a load?' says I.
“'A dollar a load,' says he.
“'All right,' I says to him, 'come over to the car-stables and get all you need at that figure.'