One evening, early in 1850, when I returned home from work, I was told that Mr. David Brooks, manager of the telegraph office, had asked my Uncle Hogan if he knew where a good boy could be found to act as messenger.  Mr. Brooks and my uncle were enthusiastic draught-players, and it was over a game of draughts that this important inquiry was made.  Upon such trifles do the most momentous consequences hang.  A word, a look, an accent, may affect the destiny not only of individuals, but of nations.  He is a bold man who calls anything a trifle.  Who was it who, being advised to disregard trifles, said he always would if any one could tell him what a trifle was?  The young should remember that upon trifles the best gifts of the gods often hang.

My uncle mentioned my name, and said he would see whether I would take the position.  I remember so well the family council that was held.  Of course I was wild with delight.  No bird that ever was confined in a cage longed for freedom more than I. Mother favored, but father was disposed to deny my wish.  It would prove too much for me, he said; I was too young and too small.  For the two dollars and a half per week offered it was evident that a much larger boy was expected.  Late at night I might be required to run out into the country with a telegram, and there would be dangers to encounter.  Upon the whole my father said that it was best that I should remain where I was.  He subsequently withdrew his objection, so far as to give me leave to try, and I believe he went to Mr. Hay and consulted with him.  Mr. Hay thought it would be for my advantage, and although, as he said, it would be an inconvenience to him, still he advised that I should try, and if I failed he was kind enough to say that my old place would be open for me.

This being decided, I was asked to go over the river to Pittsburgh and call on Mr. Brooks.  My father wished to go with me, and it was settled that he should accompany me as far as the telegraph office, on the corner of Fourth and Wood Streets.  It was a bright, sunshiny morning and this augured well.  Father and I walked over from Allegheny to Pittsburgh, a distance of nearly two miles from our house.  Arrived at the door I asked father to wait outside.  I insisted upon going alone upstairs to the second or operating floor to see the great man and learn my fate.  I 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.