the way of financing, the Hub knows
how to save, and skimp, and deposit, and get twice her share of offices
out of the President of the United States; but, outside of that, she is
nowhere, compared to New York. She has no idea of turning a sharp stock
corner, couldn't get up a Black Friday to save her life; in fact, is
only good at an old-fashioned tea-party. This is what Cousin Dempster
says about Boston, and he ought to know, being a first-class broker in
Wall Street, and New England born.

Well, of course, it wasn't long before Mr. Fisk outgrew the Hub, which
hadn't room for all the spokes which he wanted to carry to his wheel,
and off he comes to New York, gets into the Erie Railroad, and, goodness
knows how he did it! but before people knew who he was, he went smashing
and crashing up that road, prowled through Wall Street like a roaring
lion, or bear, or some other such animals as gore and claw each other in
that neighborhood.

Well, after he had sent a good many brokers sky-high with his horns, and
knocked others down with his paws, for he tackled in with both, he goes
kiting off to sea by way of the Sound.

While people were wondering what he would do next, he had gone to work
and fitted up great palatial steamboats, and invited the President to
travel in them, which the President did, not dreaming that he was
expected to build up a cattle-pen or a bear-garden in exchange for a
little hospitality.

Well, it's hard satisfying a Vermonter when he once breaks loose from
his native mountains. After gobbling up railroads and putting steamboats
afloat, Mr. Fisk just swung back into Wall Street one day, and upset
things generally in less time than any man ever did before. No shootist
ever brought down more birds at a shot, than he left men in that street
rich in the morning, and ruined at night. Cousin Dempster says it was
awful.

Mr. Fisk didn't care, but wheeled out of the street just as he used to
drive his pedler's wagon, with hoofs a-rattling and whips a-cracking,
riding over ruined men everywhere in his track.

Besides all this, Mr. Fisk had a great, grand, overpowering Opera House,
and carried on a theatre, in which women danced, like Black-crookers,
and sang like--well, I can't tell what they did sing like, not having a
comparison handy--but it was awfully interesting, Cousin Dempster said;
and I believe him, for E. E. says he used to go to that Opera House
alone so often, that she began to be afraid th