e magnitude of our
vast system and understand why it is necessary that we should make
everything for ourselves, even our steel rails. We cannot depend upon
private concerns to supply us with any of the principal articles we
consume. We shall be a world to ourselves."

"Well," I said, "Mr. Garrett, it is all very grand, but really your
'vast system' does not overwhelm me. I read your last annual report
and saw that you collected last year for transporting the goods of
others the sum of fourteen millions of dollars. The firms I control
dug the material from the hills, made their own goods, and sold them
to a much greater value than that. You are really a very small concern
compared with Carnegie Brothers and Company."

My railroad apprenticeship came in there to advantage. We heard no
more of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company entering into
competition with us. Mr. Garrett and I remained good friends to the
end. He even presented me with a Scotch collie dog of his own rearing.
That I had been a Pennsylvania Railroad man was drowned in the "wee
drap o' Scotch bluid atween us."

CHAPTER X

THE IRON WORKS

The Keystone Works have always been my pet as being the parent of all
the other works. But they had not been long in existence before the
advantage of wrought- over cast-iron became manifest. Accordingly, to
insure uniform quality, and also to make certain shapes which were not
then to be obtained, we determined to embark in the manufacture of
iron. My brother and I became interested with Thomas N. Miller, Henry
Phipps, and Andrew Kloman in a small iron mill. Miller was the first
to embark with Kloman and he brought Phipps in, lending him eight
hundred dollars to buy a one-sixth interest, in November, 1861.

I must not fail to record that Mr. Miller was the pioneer of our iron
manufacturing projects. We were all indebted to Tom, who still lives
(July 20, 1911) and sheds upon us the sweetness and light of a most
lovable nature, a friend who grows more precious as the years roll by.
He has softened by age, and even his outbursts against theology as
antagonistic to true religion are in his fine old age much less
alarming. We are all prone to grow philosophic in age, and perhaps
this is well. [In re-reading this--July 19, 1912--in our retreat upon
the high moors at Aultnagar, I drop a tear for my bosom friend, dear
Tom Miller, who died in Pittsburgh last winter. Mrs. Carnegie and I
attended his funeral. He