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.
After this story got into print, the following skit appeared in the
newspapers because I had declared I'd rather have McLuckie's few words
on my tombstone than any other inscription, for it indicated I had
been kind to one of our workmen:
"JUST BY THE WAY"
SANDY ON ANDY
Oh! hae ye heared what Andy's spiered to hae upo' his tomb,
When a' his gowd is gie'n awa an' Death has sealed his doom!
Nae Scriptur' line wi' tribute fine that dealers aye keep handy,
But juist this irreleegious screed--"That's damned white of Andy!"
The gude Scot laughs at epitaphs that are but meant to flatter,
But never are was sae profane, an' that's nae laughin' matter.
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