peon labor.  He could get nothing to do and had no money.  He was literally down to his last copper.  Naturally, as he told the story of his misfortunes, I felt very sorry for him, especially as he was a most intelligent person and did no unnecessary whining about his troubles.

I do not think I told him at the time that I knew Mr. Carnegie and had been with him at Cluny in Scotland shortly after the Homestead strike, nor that I knew from Mr. Carnegie the other side of the story.  But McLuckie was rather careful not to blame Mr. Carnegie, saying to me several times that if “Andy” had been there the trouble would never have arisen.  He seemed to think “the boys” could get on very well with “Andy” but not so well with some of his partners.

I was at the ranch for a week and saw a good deal of McLuckie in the evenings.  When I left there, I went directly to Tucson, Arizona, and from there I had occasion to write to Mr. Carnegie, and in the letter I told him about meeting with McLuckie.  I added that I felt very sorry for the man and thought he had been treated rather badly.  Mr. Carnegie answered at once, and on the margin of the letter wrote in lead pencil:  “Give McLuckie all the money he wants, but don’t mention my name.”  I wrote to McLuckie immediately, offering him what money he needed, mentioning no sum, but giving him to understand that it would be sufficient to put him on his feet again.  He declined it.  He said he would fight it out and make his own way, which was the right-enough American spirit.  I could not help but admire it in him.

As I remember now, I spoke about him later to a friend, Mr. J.A.  Naugle, the general manager of the Sonora Railway.  At any rate, McLuckie got a job with the railway at driving wells, and made a great success of it.  A year later, or perhaps it was in the autumn of the same year, I again met him at Guaymas, where he was superintending some repairs on his machinery at the railway shops.  He was much changed for the better, seemed happy, and to add to his contentment, had taken unto himself a Mexican wife.  And now that his sky was cleared, I was anxious to tell him the truth about my offer that he might not think unjustly of those who had been compelled to fight him.  So before I left him, I said,

     “McLuckie, I want you to know now that the money I offered
     you was not mine.  That was Andrew Carnegie’s money.  It was
     his offer, made through me.”

     McLuckie was fairly stunned, and all he could say was: 

     “Well, that was damned white of Andy, wasn’t it?”

I would rather risk that verdict of McLuckie’s as a passport to Paradise than all the theological dogmas invented by man.  I knew McLuckie well as a good fellow.  It was said his property in Homestead was worth thirty thousand dollars.  He was under arrest for the shooting of the police officers because he was the burgomaster, and also the chairman of the Men’s Committee of Homestead.  He had to fly, leaving all behind him.