The Price of a 'Sharp Practice'
An early Tacoma settler recounts how a handshake deal for a town site—and his trust in corporate promises—cost him a half-million-dollar fortune.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
Mr. Carr, a man of middle height, thin of face and as he feels the weight of years, hardly as much of an appearance as he feels considering the trouble he must have gone through, told his story to a Post-Intelligencer representative. 'I built the first house on the town site of Tacoma,' he said. 'I took a preemption claim and then a homestead. I should be worth a half a million—and yes—well, I have a little property that is probably worth ten thousand dollars. I would sell all I have for half what it is worth to be able to get out of the country. I am so disgusted.' Mr. Carr recounted his arrival in 1864 and his work with General McCarver to secure a rail terminus at Commencement Bay. After years of preemption and homesteading, he was approached by McCarver, who represented himself as part of a wealthy group seeking a mill site. 'I was honest then and believed that everybody else was the same,' Carr said. 'He made an offer for my preemption claim of $600 in cash, together with some land in Portland, which he said was worth $10,000. I kept the Oregon property for two years and sold it for $700. That was the beginning.' Carr eventually sought a formal agreement with the Northern Pacific Railroad for his land. He met with officials including Captain Ainsworth and General Sprague. They made promises regarding a depot and town development that they never kept, eventually building a mile and a half away from the agreed-upon location. When Carr confronted McCarver years later about the deception, the General simply smiled and said, 'Oh, that was simply a little sharp practice.' Later, when Carr met with C.B. Wright to plead for a fair settlement for his land, Wright told him: 'Don't you know, Mr. Carr, that corporations have no souls?' Carr responded, 'I have heard that frequently, Mr. Wright, and now believe it, and, too, that the individuals composing the corporations have no soul either.'
“Don't you know, Mr. Carr, that corporations have no souls? ... I have heard that frequently, Mr. Wright, and now believe it, and, too, that the individuals composing the corporations have no soul either.”
Carr's 1891 lament over the 'sharp practices' of developers and the soulless nature of corporate land hoarding in the infancy of Tacoma and Seattle reads like a transcript from a modern city council meeting. The struggle between early homesteaders and the industrial giants who built the region—often by stripping the equity from those who broke the ground—remains the foundational trauma of Puget Sound real estate.
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