“Jim Fisk,” said he. “Used to peddle drygoods up North. Now he's a millionaire broker, and the greatest rake and dandy of his time.”
Then it all came back to me—that summer day when I saw him drive into Waterville with four white horses and a big red van, and the wonderful lady at his side, and how, later, I sold my stock of goods to him.
“I think that my danger is passed,” said McCarthy; “she has found bigger game.”
That historic day of February 19, 1868, had begun, and yet none of all those who crowded the Street and its offices before eleven o'clock knew what was going on, save two, and we had just seen one of them. Not even the Commodore, who sat calmly smoking in his office on Fourth Street, had any suspicion of the frightful snare that lay before him until midday. We found him there at two o'clock. He had invested some five million dollars in Erie stock that day, and held more, even, than was authorized by the charter of the road.
“Mr. Vanderbilt, it seems to me that this Erie stock comes very easy,” said the gentleman.
The Commodore was wearing his railroad look.
“Yes; they're up to their old tricks,” said he, with an oath. “They're running a printingpress. They've been enjoined from issuing more stock, but they've no fear of God or the courts.”
“I do not think that they are printing new stock,” said McCarthy, “nor do I think that the Erie Company is technically disobeying the court.”
“What, then?” the Commodore demanded.
“Well, when the injunction was served there was probably a large amount of stock all duly signed and sealed in the stock-books. I have reason to think that Fisk has stolen the books and put the stock on the market.”