I could always sleep,
never knowing "horrid night, the child of hell."
Our friends in Pittsburgh had been anxiously waiting to hear from us,
and in their warm and affectionate greeting all our troubles were
forgotten. We took up our residence with them in Allegheny City. A
brother of my Uncle Hogan had built a small weaver's shop at the back
end of a lot in Rebecca Street. This had a second story in which there
were two rooms, and it was in these (free of rent, for my Aunt Aitken
owned them) that my parents began housekeeping. My uncle soon gave up
weaving and my father took his place and began making tablecloths,
which he had not only to weave, but afterwards, acting as his own
merchant, to travel and sell, as no dealers could be found to take
them in quantity. He was compelled to market them himself, selling
from door to door. The returns were meager in the extreme.
[Illustration: ANDREW CARNEGIE AT SIXTEEN WITH HIS BROTHER THOMAS]
As usual, my mother came to the rescue. There was no keeping her down.
In her youth she had learned to bind shoes in her father's business
for pin-money, and the skill then acquired was now turned to account
for the benefit of the family. Mr. Phipps, father of my friend and
partner Mr. Henry Phipps, was, like my grandfather, a master
shoemaker.
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