We walked in silence for a moment.
“I tell you, it's a critical time,” McCarthy went on. “The future of our country is involved in this battle.”
“How's that?”
“It will decide whether the work of progress shall be committed to brigands or remain in the hands of honest men. Our best hopes are in danger.”
He stopped, and looked at me out of troubled eyes.
“God!” he exclaimed, “suppose they cripple him and get control of the Vanderbilt roads! I shall sell everything I can and put the money at his disposal. Good-bye. I've got to hurry. Meet you at the St. Nicholas at seven.”
So saying, he halted a cab and hurried away in it.
McCarthy was only one of many honest men who rallied to the support of the Commodore that day. It seemed as if God himself took command of their hearts, and, indeed, I love to think so, foolish as I may be. The forces of decency and good faith hurried to the field of battle. The game old fighting-man stood bravely counting out his treasure until ten million dollars had been surrendered. Then the artillery of the courts began firing, and on March 12th the president of the Erie Railway and all his directors, including James Fisk, Jr., Jay Gould, and Daniel Drew, fled from New York by night, taking with them all the books, papers, securities, and funds of the company. They took refuge in a hotel in Jersey City.
A well-known newspaper printed this paragraph next day:
In the suite of the Prince of Erie, who fled from this city last night, was his friend, the well-known actress, Miss Maud Isabel Manning.