was led to this, perhaps, because I had by that time
begun to consider myself something of an American. At first boys used
to call me "Scotchie! Scotchie!" and I answered, "Yes, I'm Scotch and
I am proud of the name." But in speech and in address the broad Scotch
had been worn off to a slight extent, and I imagined that I could
make a smarter showing if alone with Mr. Brooks than if my good old
Scotch father were present, perhaps to smile at my airs.

I was dressed in my one white linen shirt, which was usually kept
sacred for the Sabbath day, my blue round-about, and my whole Sunday
suit. I had at that time, and for a few weeks after I entered the
telegraph service, but one linen suit of summer clothing; and every
Saturday night, no matter if that was my night on duty and I did not
return till near midnight, my mother washed those clothes and ironed
them, and I put them on fresh on Sabbath morning. There was nothing
that heroine did not do in the struggle we were making for elbow room
in the western world. Father's long factory hours tried his strength,
but he, too, fought the good fight like a hero and never failed to
encourage me.

The interview was successful. I took care to explain that I did not
know Pittsburgh, that perhaps I would not do, would not be strong
enough; but all I wanted was a trial. He asked me how soon I could
come, and I said that I could stay now if wanted. And, looking back
over the circumstance, I think that answer might well be pondered by
young men. It is a great mistake not to seize the opportunity. The
position was offered to me; something might occur, some other boy
might be sent for. Having got myself in I proposed to stay there if I
could. Mr. Brooks very kindly called the other boy--for it was an
additional messenger that was wanted--and asked him to show me about,
and let me go with him and learn the business. I soon found
opportunity to run down to the corner of the street and tell my father
that it was all right, and to go home and tell mother that I had got
the situation.

[Illustration: DAVID McCARGO]

And that is how in 1850 I got my first real start in life. From the
dark cellar running a steam-engine at two dollars a week, begrimed
with coal dirt, without a trace of the elevating influences of life, I
was lifted into paradise, yes, heaven, as it seemed to me, with
newspapers, pens, pencils, and sunshine about me. There was scarcely a
minute in which I could not learn someth