At a meeting of the Texas Gun Collectors Association several years ago this author got a terrible shock. He stopped at a table upon which were a number of percussion revolvers purported to be Confederate. They were not for sale; their proud owner had spent a pretty penny in amassing what is recognized as the best collection of Confederate revolvers in the world. But the shock came because the author, having some handiness with a file himself, was forced into the realization that if he couldn’t do a better job of butchering up a pistol conglomeration composed of bits of Manhattan, Metropolitan, different vintages of Navy Colt, and turn the barrel round, ad nauseum, he would quit! The statement is not to give offense to the collector—he knows who he is, and he knows that his fellow collectors regard him with sincerity as a gentleman and a scholar. The statement is to point out three morals:
You place me in a most embarrassing position, Mr. Secretary. How is that, Mr. Wilkeson? the gaunt-faced Penn sylvanian queried, the lines of his expression amplified by the fatigue and, somewhat, disappointment with which he laid down his role as Secretary of War for Mr. Lincoln. Because, Mr. Cameron, the newspaperman re sponded, your contract for rifle muskets with the Eagle Manufacturing Company of Mansfield, Connecticut is for only 25,000 arms, and my friends there, whom I induced to engage in this business in expectation of your issuing a further order, as your assistant Mr. Scott assured me you would, will be sorely embarrassed in their operations on this small amount. Indeed this is bad news to me, Mr. Wilkeson, War Secretary Simon Cameron sympathetically observed, as he stuffed papers from his desk drawer into a large portfolio, scanning them briefly, consigning some to the waste basket. But as you can see, I am leaving office today; I believe Mister Stanton, who repla
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