Watch Yourself Go By

by Al. G. Field

FOOTNOTES:

[B] Bacon.

[C] Gravy.

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[CHAPTER FIFTEEN]

Do not believe all that you hear,
For hot air men are hawking;
And even keep a cautious ear
When you, yourself, are talking.

Brownsville, Pa.

My Dear Son:

I take my pen in hand to write you a few lines hoping that they may find you as well as we all are here. Mother reads your letters to us at dinner time. I hope you are living better. I never knew a genius that cared much about his eating, therefore, I do not suppose Palmer ever gave it a thought that you were suffering. He is a good fellow and I know he will make out well, except in the eating line.

You need not worry about your shotgun; I have it and will look after it until such time as I feel you should be permitted to handle dangerous weepuns. Turner Simpson says your Cousin Charley got that hound pup weeks ago; he claims Charley said you sent him after the pup.

All your friends inquire about you. Bill Johnston told me he was sorry he had to have you arrested for overturning his hay stack; that he did not believe you was to blame, the boys with you led you into oversetting the haystack to catch the rabbit.

Your Uncle Joe was in town Saturday, got tite and carried on high. He is getting worse as he gets older. Betsy is mortified to death. They were just at communion afore it happened.

How is Palmer doing? Is he making money? Did he get my letter? Hoping to hear from you very often and that you will remember that your father and mother and all the children think of you daily and all look forward to the time when we shall see you again,

Your affectionate father,

J. C. H..

Alfred was living in a little world all his own. Jake, Bedford Tom, Mrs. Palmer, Gideon, Tom White, were its inhabitants. Palmer was not of it. He was not of the agreeable circle. Alfred often read letters from home to Mrs. Palmer. She was greatly interested in the correspondence. Alfred knew she desired him to read the father's letter to her. In a serious manner he advised the letter was a business one. This seemed to make the good woman even more anxious. She actually quizzed Alfred as to whether the letter was not one demanding payment of money borrowed by her husband. Alfred asked her if she knew the amount due his father. She did not, but said she would ascertain; further, she would exert herself to earn money to repay it. Alfred appreciated this and regretted he had ever mentioned the flitch in his letters to the folks at home. He felt that he had reflected upon Mrs. Palmer.

He re-read his father's letter that he might expunge the reference to the scant living. He read to where Bill Johnston had apologized for having him arrested; he did not care to have Mrs. Palmer know of this.

Palmer and the Wise Virgin

Palmer, with his panorama and side issues, was making money, and there was not a day, not an hour, that something coarse, selfish or mean, did not show itself in word or deed of the man. The half dozen young women, who took part in the final scene, were robed in long, pale blue gowns, worn over their street apparel. It was necessary to fit the costumes on the young ladies previous to the opening or first exhibition. In arranging with the fathers or mothers of the girls, Palmer always emphasized the statement that: "My wife, Mrs. Palmer will take charge of the young ladies, show them their costumes." Mrs. Palmer was always ready to do so but Palmer was always there. He insisted, he forced his services in fitting the costumes. He would take an unusually long time to smooth out the wrinkles on the waist and bust lines. All this was done so unconcerned that none would ever suspect he was playing a part. His wife would flush up, walk away and occupy herself with other duties.

If there was a foolish virgin among the damsels—and there were some foolish ones in those days, though not so many as now—Palmer would begin a flirtation, kept up until he departed. This was only one of the many mean traits of the man that lessened Alfred's respect for him.

Palmer could not understand Alfred. Always full of fun and mischief, always ready to laugh, yet at times the boy was positively rude to the man nor would he permit any familiarity from Palmer.

One day in setting up the frame of the panorama, several members of the church in which it was to be exhibited, entered the auditorium unnoticed. Palmer, while driving a nail, miscalculated, the hammer came down on one of his fingers. Flinging the hammer on the floor with all the force he could command, he poured forth a torrent of profanity. Gideon, by signs, gave Palmer to understand that others were near. With a change as quick as a flash, Palmer grabbed Alfred by the coat collar, nearly lifting the boy off his feet. With a voice that sounded as if it were choking with indignation, he began: "You young scamp, I never heard you swear like this before, and I never want to hear you again. How dare you use such language in this house?" The onslaught was so sudden and unexpected that Alfred was taken off his feet. He had been in high good humor, laughing heartily at Palmer's mishap. Palmer led the intruders out in the auditorium ere the boy gathered his scattered senses.

Jake exclaimed: "Huh! Balmur knocks his fingers und makes oudt Alfred does der tammen." Shaking his head, he continued: "Balmur beats der bugs."

Alfred was savage with anger. He started after Palmer but Gideon restrained him, standing in his pathway, holding him back, appealing to Jake to assist him in controlling the boy. Gideon persuaded Alfred to drop the matter for the time. Jake desired that the boy call Palmer to account. He answered Gideon's appeals in a sort of careless, I-don't-care way: "Vell, it's yust like Alfredt feels, if he vants to yump Balmur, I tink he kann handle him, I von't interfere. It iss none uf my biziness, yett."

Palmer Grabbed Alfred by the Collar

It was late in the afternoon when Palmer again appeared in the church. He entered, as was his custom, all hurry and bustle. "Hello, Alfred! I thought you'd have the panorama all set. Waiting for the boss, hey?"

"Yes, I'm waiting for the boss and I want to tell the boss the next time he tries to make a scapegoat out of me before a lot of church people he'll hear something he won't like. I'm no clod-hopper to have you make me appear a rowdy. You daddy your own cussing."

Palmer seemed greatly surprised at this and, as usual, in an argument with his people, became greatly excited. He endeavored to win with a bluff. "Here, my young man, you're always playing your jokes on Jake and all the others; I was only having a little fun with you, I didn't intend to hurt your feeling."

"Feelings! Feelings! What about my good name? What'll those men think of me? I'm ashamed to face them again while I'm here."

"Oh, you're too soft to travel; you ought to be at home with your gilt edge ideas."

"Well, I can go home," hotly retorted Alfred.

"I've got a written agreement with your father and I'll hold you to it," threatened Palmer.

"You'll hold me to nothing. You've got no writings that'll permit your making me out a rowdy."

"Now see here, Mr. Minstrel," and Palmer assumed mock politeness, "I've heard enough of your slack; dry up or I'll make you."

Alfred jumped to the middle of the platform and dared Palmer to lay his hand on him. Palmer got so excited he could not talk. Gideon, as usual, in his quiet, argumentative way, endeavored to smooth the matter over: "Come on, let's get ready for tonight. We're going to have the best business since we opened."

"I've quit," announced Alfred, "I'm going home."

Jake's smile fled; his under jaw hung down, giving his face an expression Alfred had never previously seen it wear. Gideon turned even more yellowish looking. Bedford Tom ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice as he blurted out: "I pity Pilgrim's Progress."

Gideon continued his plea: "Well, if this company isn't demoralized I don't know what I'm talking about. Now see here, boys, listen to me; we're together, let's reason like honest people should: To have you," and he looked at Alfred, "quit thus abruptly would cause innocent ones to suffer. See what an embarrassment it would be to Mrs. Palmer. Why, it would kill her. She has sacrificed everything she holds dear in the world; she has two children." (Gideon had won his point, it was not necessary for him to say more). "She has not seen those children in two years; she hopes to have them with her soon. See what a disappointment it would be to her and the children. Alfred, as at present arranged, we could not spare you. I will get Palmer and we will fix this matter up satisfactorily to you."

Alfred was just a boy, not unlike any other boy. He did not desire to quit; and he knew he was indispensable to the successful production of the panorama. He also felt that he had won thus far. He did not yield, outwardly at least, but agreed that he would await Gideon's interview with Palmer. He had no preconceived ideas as to what to do or say further, but, like all who are disgruntled, he could not bring himself to say that he would.

While Gideon was seeking Palmer, Jake endeavored to console Alfred: "Ef you do go out of der paneramy it vill be too tam bad; I will not acdt out annudder time. I toldt Balmur delas' time. I'm no handt at paneramy buziness und it's no more fur Jake to do it."

Bedford Tom put another blotch on the white pine floor as he patted Jake on the back: "You're all yerself agin, ole man, your sensibilness is kerrect; don't try to act in a panerammer or enythin' else. Ef ye hed seen yerself with thet tume-stun, er whatever it wus, on yer back, an' wallerin' in thet painted pond, ye'd never went back to Bedford. Ye certainly made a muss of hit."

"Vell, I toldt heem I vus ashamed mit myself, end he sedt: 'Oh, hell yu kann standt und look myzerbul, kan't yu?'"

Bedford Tom laughed in the honest Dutchman's face as he assured him he looked "myzerbul enuff but his actin' was more myzerbul then his looks."

"Vhy don'dt yu try it ef yu tink it ees so tam easy?" was Jake's answer.

Gideon walked in, beckoned to Alfred: "Come down to Palmer's room, he wants to talk this whole thing over."

Alfred did not care to meet Mrs. Palmer. "Tell Palmer to come up here," was the message Gideon carried back. Alfred was feeling just a little ashamed of the part he had played in the dispute; he felt that he had gone a bit further than he should. But his instinctive dislike to Palmer had grown day by day. The man's face, that index to character, had repulsed him when they first met. There are lines in the face chiseled by a sculptor who never makes a wrong stroke. The face is a truthful record of our vices and virtues. It is a map of life that outlines character so clearly that there is no getting away from the story it tells. The face is a signboard showing which way the man or woman is traveling, which of life's crossroads they are on. The face cannot betray the years one has traveled until the mind gives its consent. The mind is the master. If the mind holds youthful, innocent thoughts, the face will retain a youthful appearance. And the more permanent are the marks made by petulancy, hatred and selfishness thereon. The best letter of recommendation ever written is an open fearless face.

Palmer put in an appearance, his face showing plainly that he was not at ease. His manner was as flambuoyant as ever: "Where is this mainstay of the only panorama on earth? Come here, boy, I want to talk to you like a father:

"I was a boy not long ago, unthinking, idle, wild and young,
I laughed, and danced and talked and sung."

The antics Palmer cut while delivering this couplet were truly amusing. Palmer was an actor. Placing his hand on Alfred's shoulder, gazing into his face, he continued:

"Just at the age twixt boy and youth,
When thought is speech and speech is truth."

Then quoting Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress: "I have given him my faith and sworn my allegiance to him. How then can I go back from this and not be hanged as a traitor?" Palmer pointed his long, bony finger at Alfred and awaited a reply. It came:

"I was indeed engaged in your dominions but your services were hard and your wages such as a man could not live on. For the wages of sin is death."

Palmer, a little discomforted, led the boy to one side, saying: "Now see here, young fellow, I'm as old as your father; I don't look it, but I am. Now you want to quit, eh? You wouldn't be at home four days before you would wish yourself back here. You are not rich, your father is not rich. You have to make a living. I'll give you an opportunity to make money. You are learning this business, you have good ideas. You remain with me, I'll make a man of you; I'll put you in a way to make more money than you've ever seen."

Alfred intimated that he could not see himself making a great deal of money at twenty dollars a month.

"Why, don't you count your board, as anything?"

"Well, I'm not satisfied. I'm worth more than twenty dollars a month to you," stubbornly contended Alfred.

"But you and your father are both bound up to me in a written agreement. Do you want to break it? Would that be right?"

"Well, you broke your written contract with the members of Rock Hill Church. You said Gideon made the contract without consulting you. Grandpap made this contract without consulting me."

Palmer laughed long and loud: "Egad, that's good! This kid finds me skinning a couple of old duffers and forthwith he sets about to skin me. The harvest truly is plenteous but the laborers are few; ask and it shall be given to you; seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened to you." Pointing at Alfred, he continued: "But remember, the love of money is the root of all evil. Say, what are you going to do with all this money?"

"Buy a farm, some day," answered Alfred.

"How great a matter a little fire kindleth," quoted Palmer as he pleadingly asked: "Say, kid, how much are you going to hang me up for?"

"Well, if you give me fifty dollars a month, I'll stick to you."

"Holy mother of all that's evil; the devil and Tom Walker! Say, who do you take after? Not your daddy. He's easy. Fifty dollars a month? Say, I worked two years and had a wife and two children to take care of and I never cleared forty dollars a month. I've been a lifetime working myself up to what I am and you jump into the game, inexperienced, green as a cucumber, and want to hog the persimmons at the start. 'Taint fair, 'taint right; I'm an honest man; I want to treat everybody right. You're taking advantage of me. It's the principle of the thing I look at."

"Well, get another boy, you can find one any day. If I stay with this panorama I will get fifty dollars a month."

"Yes, and if I permit you to hold me up this time, the next move you'll want the panorama. Your Uncle William served his time like an honest boy, he has made a fortune. He has the best farm in Fayette County; he has money, he is the judge of the county court. He never got where he is by breaking written agreements."

"Yes, but that was different, Uncle William was learning a trade. He got all kinds of chances to make money on the outside of his work."

"Hold on right there—I'll give you any opportunity you want to make money on the side. You can sell the "Life of John Bunyan," "The Pilgrim's Progress," "Paradise Lost," the steel engraving of the twelve apostles or anything we sell and I'll allow you a good, big commission."

The sale of the above mentioned articles was that which first turned Alfred against Palmer. The sneaking, wheedling methods he employed, the subterfuges, the lies in disposing of books and pictures, were the things which made the man most repulsive to Alfred. He therefore felt insulted when Palmer offered him the opportunity to make money from this source. Alfred plainly informed Palmer that he would not have anything to do with the sale of the books or pictures.

"Huh! I suppose you feel above selling books that are in the libraries of the best people in the world. You'd prefer, no doubt, to sell pills."

A little abashed, Alfred came back with: "Well, if I did sell pills, I sold them on the square and at a less price than they were worth and they were sold to folks that needed them and if they needed them and wern't able to pay for them they got them free and we didn't lie about what we did with the money. We didn't pretend to send it to the heathen."

Palmer interrupted the boy: "Wait and see how you get along when you strike your own gait, when you get your own show out. That's your idea; that's why you are so unreasonable. I'm going to give you the money you ask, not because it's right but because I want to do what's right. If I'd let you go, you'd go back to Brownsville and it would not be a week until you'd have some fool thing afloat that would bring all sorts of trouble on your folks. I'm doing this for your people, not for you."

Alfred had won. He was not entirely free from the feeling that he had not acted quite right but he stilled his conscience by arguing to himself that Grandpap had no authority to enter into a contract for him; besides hadn't his mother declared that no indenture was valid without her signature, that no child of hers should ever be bound to anybody? When she demanded to see the papers it was not convenient for those interested to have them at hand. The mother had forcibly informed Palmer that there must be no restraint upon Alfred should he become homesick and that he must be permitted to return to his home at any time he desired to do so. All of which Palmer had unreservedly agreed to.

Bedford, Pa.

Dear Father:

Your welcome letter came to hand today; glad you are all well and hearty. I've had a big fuss with Palmer. I wanted to quit. He coaxed me to stay and promised me fifty dollars a month. Is that paper he holds on me binding? Could he hold my wages if he wanted to. He told Gideon he was going to record the indenture when we got to Leesburg and it would always stand in evidence against me. He is not the kind of man Grandpap and Uncle Thomas crack him up to be. If Palmer don't pay the fifty, I don't stay, papers or no papers. He is gouging everybody and it is no sin to gouge him. Say Pap, now don't get mad; how much did he set you back? Tell me. If I get the fifty I think I can get yours. If Cousin Charley has my hound he'll have to give it up when I get home. If I get the fifty I'll buy me a new shotgun like Capt. Abrams has.

My love to Muz and all the children and Lin.

Give my love to all. Your affectionate son,

Alfred Griffith Hatfield.

P. S. I am not afraid of Palmer; I could break him in two. But I don't like to break the law. Let me know about the paper he holds, he would do anything, law or no law.

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Since Alfred's experience with the law in the Eli affair it could not be said that he had more respect for the law but undoubtedly he had more fear for it as evidenced by his letter to the father.

Things went on much the same with the panorama. Palmer was more polite and condescending toward Alfred in speech, but many little inconveniences were put upon him that he had not experienced previous to the unpleasantness.

Jake seemed to have fallen under the displeasure of Palmer and many were the squabbles between them. At one place where the panorama exhibited the church was too small. An old carriage factory was used instead. At one end there was a large freight lift elevator. Palmer's inventive genius prompted him to use the platform of the elevator for a stage. It was about twenty by thirty feet in dimensions much larger than the stages usually constructed for the panorama. When the elevator was in place it formed a part of the floor of the room.

Palmer and Jake labored all day and into the night to elevate it about two feet above the floor. When elevated thus it was pronounced by the little company the best stage since the season began; just high enough to show the effects to best advantage.

Jake said he hoped "dey vould strike more blaces mit dings like dis." The building of a platform or a stage in the various churches had made strenuous work for Jake.

All was set for the unveiling of the wonderful work of art. The old factory was crowded. All went smoothly until the scene where "Faithful" is adjudged guilty and condemned to the terrible punishment supposed to be meted out to him. This scene is not visible to the audience but is described by the lecturer, as "Faithful" is supposed to be burned to ashes after being scourged and pricked with knives. Palmer had just concluded the speech: "Now I saw that there stood behind the multitude a chariot and a couple of horses waiting for 'Faithful', who, as soon as his adversaries had dispatched him, was taken up into it, and straightway, was carried up through the clouds with sound of trumpet." Palmer sounded the trumpet. Tom White, in a long, white flowing robe, with gauze veils over his face, is pulled up by a block and tackle, the rope concealed by the long, white robe. With appropriate music this scene was one of the most beautiful in the exhibition.

The trumpet sounded signaling "Faithful's" ascension. How what followed happened no one will ever know. Palmer blamed Jake. Jake never admitted or denied that he was the cause. When there should have been an ascension there was a descension.

The elevator slipped a cog, or something; there was a slow, regular descent, not too hasty. Down went the whole panorama, descending in time with the music; down went the City of Vanity with its fair, its thieves and fakirs painted on canvas, while poor "Faithful" dangled in mid-air. As the elevator sank out of sight, as the characters, painting and frame disappeared below the floor, the audience applauded approvingly at first, then the absurdity of the scene struck them and approving applause changed to aggravating laughter.

Jake stood manfully by the rope he was holding; Palmer was wild; Alfred and Bedford Tom were doing all they could to suppress their laughter. Suddenly the thing stopped, struck the floor in the room below. Jake, grabbing the windlass, soon had the panorama slowly ascending. As it came into view the audience applauded lustily. Mrs. Palmer kept the ascension music going until the stage was back in its proper place when Palmer, who was always seeking an opportunity to make a speech, walked out in front of the curtain and explained that the panorama weighed several tons, the great weight had broken the lift.

At this juncture Jake appeared with two heavy pieces of scantling; unmindful of Palmer, he began spiking the props under the edge of the platform. The strokes of the hammer completely drowned Palmer's voice. When Jake sent the last nail home he arose from his knees with a "Dere, tam you, I ges you'll holdt now."

Palmer was in a greater rage than at any time since the tour began. His wife, Gideon and several others endeavored to pacify him. Everybody but Alfred came in for a share of the abuse; even his poor wife, who was really deserving of all praise for saving the scene, was more than censured.

Alfred could not control his laughter; he fled fearing Palmer would turn on him.

Palmer swore so loudly that Gideon came from the front to quiet him. He swore at Gideon; he did not care if the whole town heard him curse. He had worn his life out to produce the Pilgrim's Progress, and now a darn clod-hopper, a Reuben, a gilly, a jay, had undone the work of a lifetime and made him (Palmer) ridiculous in the eyes of the world. What would people say? What would church people say? They would not pay him for such an exhibition. Would he (Jake) furnish the money to pay the expenses after ruining the business of the panorama?

Jake sat on a box, his eyes following Palmer as he walked from one side of the platform to the other, busying himself all the while with some part of the panorama, never looking toward Jake. Jake's smile was the same, that is around the mouth; but looking more closely you could see an expression in the deep-set blue eyes that betrayed feelings far removed from those which cause smiles.

Palmer concluded his tirade by flinging a hammer on the floor and declaring his belief that the mistakes were the result of a deliberate attempt upon the part of the perpetrator to ruin him. "But I will not be driven away from this work of my life by conspirators."

Jake had but a limited understanding of Palmer's language, yet sufficient of what had been said sifted through his mind to convince him that Palmer had made strong charges against him. Jake, in a tone of voice that would have convinced anyone more reasonable than Palmer, of his sorrow, inquired: "Vot I tid?"

"Vot I tid?" repeated Palmer, imitating Jake. "Vot I tid? Ha! Ha! What didn't you do? From the night we opened it's been one round of breaks and blunders upon your part."

Jake, in open-eyed surprise, repeated: "Breaks? Breaks? Breaks? Vot I breaks?"

Palmer never ceased talking nor noticed Jake's questions. Pointing at Jake, he said: "First you assumed the part of Christian, the most important character to be impersonated. Every schoolboy or girl knows the Christian makes a pilgrimage beginning at the City of Destruction, from which he flees to the Celestial City. He carries a burden, of which he is relieved at the proper time. He is supposed to encounter all sorts of hardships and avoid pitfalls of danger, coming out triumphant at the end of his journey. I ordered you to read the book. Alfred read it and is familiar with every detail; you know nothing, positively nothing."

"Vot I tid?" again demanded Jake, a bit sternly.

"Vot you tid?" and Palmer pretended to tear his hair. "The first night, the first scene, by holding the book you were supposed to be reading, down by your knees, gaping at the audience like a baboon. You rolled over on the floor in the Slough of Despond like a hog wallowing; you throwed your burden in the Slough, then walked in the pond after it. The pond you was supposed to be sinking into, drowning, you walked over it as you would over a lawn or carpeted room, not sinking one inch in it. You gathered up Christian's burden. Instead of replacing it on your back you took it under your arm like a basket; instead of walking as you were directed, towards the Wicket Gate, the Shining Light, you steered straight into the bowels of Hell. Not being satisfied with going to Hell yourself, you so arrange this lift, this platform that, at the very climax of the most beautiful scene in the marvelous exhibition, you send the whole panorama down to the lower story of the building, thus conveying to the audience the idea that we are burlesquing Pilgrim's Progress. Instead of steering for Heaven, steering for Hell! Bah! Every last one in that audience will leave this building with the idea that the entire panorama went to Hell."

Then in an injured, pleading tone, as if scared, Palmer continued: "If this goes ahead of us it will surely ruin our business. I will sell my interest in this show for one-half of what I'd taken yesterday." All this was acting.

Poor Jake was completely confused, dumfounded. Most conscientious, honest and sincere, without deceit, he scarcely knew what to say to explain that he was unfortunate and all that had happened was unavoidable.

He said: "Meester Balmur, I'm werry sorry dot I haf you so much troubles made. I haf neffer toldt you dot I cud do vork as Alfredt und Tom. I cannot speek me plain und I did yust so goot as I cud. I am sorry I kan't exbress my, my, my feelings mit dis ting, but I hope you must exkuse me."

Palmer interrupted: "Oh, well; it's gone beyond my patience to stand it longer. You are an incumbrance, you are a barnacle. I'll sell you my interest in this enterprise and you can go on and run it; this partnership business don't suit me." Palmer ended it by saying: "I'll see you in the morning."

The little party with the panorama were generally quartered with members of the congregation of the church in which the panorama exhibited. In making contracts with the various churches, Palmer, whenever possible, made it a part of the agreement that his people and horses were to be boarded. One family would take Palmer and his wife, another a couple of the others. When Palmer paid their board they were quartered in the meanest, cheapest taverns or boarding houses in the town. At times the company would lodge in a house the owners of which were very poor people who were sorely in need.

It seemed to Alfred the more needy a family appeared, the more insistent Palmer was in forcing pictures, books, etc., upon them. It was a trick of his to hang a picture in the best room, place books on the center table. If they insisted that conditions would not permit enjoying the luxury of the books or pictures, Palmer would become insulting and complain of the quality or quantity of the food.

Alfred and Jake were both so thoroughly ashamed at times they would go elsewhere for their meals.

It happened that, when the trouble came up between Jake and Palmer, the entire party were quartered at a modest little tavern kept by a Pennsylvania Dutchman of large girth and little patience. Palmer had failed to induce him or his good wife, who did all the cooking, to buy pictures or books. "Ve vant no more picturs und ve don't reat der pooks," was the argument with which the old fellow met all of Palmer's solicitations.

After one of their arguments, Palmer, as usual, lost his patience: "What sort of humans are you? You belong to no church. Where are you bound for? Like Jake—hell, I suppose." Then he laughed sarcastically.

"Vell, ve haf got along always in Frostburgh und hell can't be much vorse und if you vant to sell picturs und pooks to pay fur your bordt, you besser stop mit Con Lynch (referring to a rival tavern). Ve don't keep travelers to kepp oudt of hell, ve keep bordters to keep oudt of der poor house."

Palmer answered the old fellow's argument with a reply that he thought humorous: "Well, if I'd thought there was a poorer house in town than yours I'd stopped there."

"Vell, it's not too late, gitt oudt, tam you, pack up your pooks und picturs und gitt oudt purty quick or I'll trow you oudt on der rote."

Palmer, his wife and Gideon, sought quarters at the other tavern; Jake and Alfred remained.

The next day was one of unpleasantness. Palmer never permitted an opportunity to pass that he did not cast slurs at all, Jake in particular. It was evident that Palmer was imbibing more freely than usual. He constantly drank whiskey; he was drinking to excess. Mrs. Palmer cried almost constantly. Gideon was more nervous than usual. He was at Palmer's side constantly; everywhere Palmer went Gideon followed. Long and earnest talks were engaged in, Palmer always obstinate, Gideon pleading. When Palmer left the place where the panorama was on exhibition, Mrs. Palmer stood in or near the door gazing out wistfully until he reappeared; then seat herself in the furthermost part of the room from her husband seemingly desirous of keeping out of his sight.

Alfred finally inquired if he could do anything for her. In a few words she gave him to understand that her husband was of a very excitable nature at intervals, took to drink and continued it until he fell sick. She begged Alfred to have Jake apologize and not to quarrel or cross the man, no matter what provocation he gave them, all of which Alfred promised her. Jake readily agreed to do anything she suggested.

Alfred and Jake retired to their room where Jake took Alfred into his confidence, informing the boy of the circumstances that led to his connection with the panorama. Palmer had an advertisement in a newspaper offering flattering inducements to a man with six hundred dollars. Jake read the advertisement. Palmer visited Jake in answer to his letter. His smooth talk won the honest German. Palmer was very sorry that Jake had not written sooner as he had about concluded a deal with a man in Brownsville and before he could arrange with Jake he must go to Brownsville, see the man and make some sort of an honorable arrangement to relieve him of the promises made. He induced Jake to accompany him to Brownsville. Hence the visit of Palmer and Jake to Alfred's home.

Afterwards Palmer informed Jake that he was compelled to pay Alfred's father two hundred dollars to release him from their agreement. The honest German was thereby convinced that the panorama was a good investment. He persuaded his mother to borrow six hundred dollars, all of which was turned over to Palmer. Jake's understanding was that he was to be paid thirty dollars a week for his team services. Jake was to have charge of all moneys received, the six hundred dollars was to be repaid from profits of the venture. Jake had received to that date forty-one dollars. Drawing a paper from an old fashioned leather purse, passing it to Alfred: "Here iss der writing vot vill tell you how it all iss."

Alfred read and re-read the paper which was in Palmer's handwriting. The legal phraseology was somewhat confusing, but his deductions, were that Jake was to receive thirty dollars a week for the use of the team and his and Bedford Tom's services; that Jake was to handle the money; that he, Jacob Wilson, was to retain six hundred dollars from the profits and that, when the said six hundred dollars had been paid, the terms of the contract had been complied with. Such was Alfred's understanding of the contract.

He became convinced that Palmer had in some way defrauded, or intended to defraud Jake. The fact that Palmer had repeatedly asserted that he could get rid of Jake—he so informed Alfred when urging the son to influence the father to take an interest in the panorama—caused Alfred to feel sure that Jake was being tricked.

Respecting Mrs. Palmer's request and owing to Palmer's condition, Alfred decided to keep the matter quiet for the present. Ending the interview with Jake, he returned the paper to the German with the advice that, when Palmer got off his spree, to take the matter up, have the contract examined by a lawyer.

Although Jake was quiet and undemonstrative, he was no easy man to control when aroused. His limited experience in business, his unsophisticated nature naturally made him suspicious and there was not an hour while he was awake that he did not seek Alfred to talk over the possibilities of Palmer absolutely dropping him without returning any of his money.

The night following that of the scene between Jake and Palmer, after a day that saw Palmer in front of the bar of the tavern at least twenty times, the second exhibition of the panorama began. It was the first town wherein the exhibition failed to attract a larger audience the second night than that which witnessed the first exhibition. The facts were Palmer's condition was apparent to all with whom he came in contact. The talk went over the town that one of the preachers with the show was on a tear and the other one couldn't hold him down. The church people held consultations and it was determined to cancel the third night.

The second exhibition was even more ragged and uneven than the first night. The lift, or platform, did not give way and carry the painted pictures towards the lower regions; "Faithful" made the ascension as scheduled; and the climaxes and tableaux were all more beautifully presented than on the opening night. But the eloquent speeches were delivered by Palmer in a thick-tongued voice; his pronunciation was so imperfect that many of the most beautiful speeches were lost upon the audience. Palmer did not complete his lecture.

All were nervous, all were laboring under great strain. The members of the little party exerted themselves; not one made a mistake, not one forgot a line.

But Palmer, the manager, the proprietor, he who should have been the first in the work, Palmer was drunk, and the Pilgrim's Progress was ruined, insofar as that town was concerned. Palmer had become frenzied the night previous and cried over the excusable blunders of an honest meaning man. Yet tonight he had ruined the entertainment, disgusted all who heard him.

Palmer imagined the performance the most excellent yet given, he so informed all. None had the heart to correct his bewildered imaginings. When Gideon came back and informed him that the church officials would have nothing further to do with the exhibition and that if it were put on the next night they would announce to the town that they were in no way responsible, he defied the church people, swore he would compel them to comply with their contract, that he would show, (he always used the word "show" when he was excited or drunk), the next night and several nights thereafter. He left the scene for the tavern.

Jake and Alfred repaired to their lodgings. A long time after they had retired, a timid rapping on the door aroused them. The door opened, and Gideon and Mrs. Palmer were standing in the hall. The woman's face was the picture of misery; Gideon was in a terrible state of mind.

Palmer had continued his debauch until he was frenzied. Both feared to remain in the house with him; he had attempted to injure both of them. Gideon implored Alfred and Jake to endeavor to calm him; at least, prevent him drinking any more. Jake was loath to go. He had no fear of Palmer but brooded over the abuse the man had heaped upon him—Bedford Tom had fully explained and exaggerated all that Palmer had said and that Jake did not comprehend at the time. Jake, after due deliberation, decided in his mind that if Palmer ever abused him again, and Mrs. Palmer was not near, Palmer would feel the weight of his hand. Therefore Jake thought he had best not trust himself in Palmer's presence.

Loud words could be heard. Alfred trying the door, found it locked. The landlord demanded to know who was there. Alfred informed him that he was a friend of Palmer's and had come to look after him. He was admitted.

Palmer was singing a popular song of the day at the top of his voice, the landlord endeavoring to quiet him. When Alfred caught a glimpse of Palmer he could not resist laughing outright. The man was minus coat, vest and outer shirt, his long, yellow neck, his sharp face with its tuft of beard, the hooked nose, made his head appear like Punch on a stick.

Catching sight of Alfred, Palmer extended his hand and began singing a negro minstrel ditty, cake-walking around the boy several times, his hand extended as if he were inviting the boy to join in his dance.

"Mr. Palmer! Mr. Palmer! It's very late. The folks in the house desire to sleep. Come on with me; come on to your room," pleaded Alfred.

Palmer kept up his singing, keeping time with his feet. Jake appeared. Palmer rushed toward him, threw his arms about him, embraced him, calling him his only friend. "Stick to me, Jake, I'll do the right thing by you. I know you're all right; I am ashamed of myself for cussing you. But—never—mind. Come—on—Jake—come—on. Where's Gideon? I want to give you $600.00. Come on Jake."

Jake held Palmer like a baby, pleading with him to go to bed. Palmer swore he would not leave the room until the landlord gave him another drink. Then he wanted all to drink with him. All declined. Then he wanted to fight the whole crowd.

Alfred and Jake finally pushed and carried Palmer to his room. They deposited him upon the bed and held him there by force until his senses began to leave him. Sleep overcame him and, although he kept up a twitching of the fingers and mutterings, he slept. Alfred and Jake both fell asleep. When Alfred awoke, Palmer still slept. He tiptoed toward Palmer and was more than startled to see Mrs. Palmer seated at the head of the bed, where she had sat all night.

Gideon called the boy and Jake into a conference. It was Gideon's idea that the party leave the town immediately, keep Palmer on the road away from drink until he was completely sobered up. The panorama was dismounted and loaded in the big wagon in less time than ever before. Jake gave the word and they were on their way.

Palmer fretted and fumed the whole journey; Jake did not drive fast enough to please him; he would walk, then ride a short distance; all the while complaining and censuring first one, then another. Jake had not traversed half the day's journey until he became convinced that Palmer's effusive exhibitions of friendship the night previous were prompted by the libations of which he had partaken.

Finally, donning hat and coat Palmer started at a pace so brisk that he was soon a considerable distance in advance of the slow moving wagon. Jake was thoroughly disgusted. At a little distance on he made excuse the harness was broken, and halted the team at least half an hour. Jake, like Alfred, concluded that Palmer would go a little ways and await them.

When Jake resumed the journey he drove the team somewhat faster, prompted to do so by the anxiety of the good woman, who sat by his side straining her eyes, gazing ahead along the white, dusty way. The object she looked for did not come into sight.

The shadows of night began to fall. Jake had the team going at a faster pace than the big wagon had ever sped previously. All eyes looked down the pike ahead of the team; all expected every minute to see Palmer on the road ahead of them.

Gideon broke the painful silence: "Whoa! Whoa! Jake, pull the horses up." Jake obeyed. All turned towards Gideon. "No man could keep ahead of the team the rate we have been going. He couldn't keep ahead of us even if he had run, let alone walked. If Palmer hasn't caught onto someone who is traveling in a buggy or other light vehicle, he has laid down by the roadside and fallen asleep and failed to hear us go by. I will go back and look for him; it's only two miles further to town, you all go on."

All hesitated. Jake then proposed that the wagon halt where it was and all go back seeking Palmer. Jake, Alfred and Bedford Tom retracing their steps, looking on each side of the road as they walked. Every person they met was questioned, but none had noticed a man answering Palmer's description. Inquiry was made at every farm house.

Finally a traveler on horseback informed the searchers that a man answering the description of Palmer was seated on the driver's seat of the stage coach going west.

The three retraced their steps and gave Gideon and the wife the information gained. Driving into Hancock, Gideon, who was best informed as to the lines of travel, decided he would take the train for Cumberland and ascertain there as to whether Palmer had been a passenger on the stage coach. Later in the evening news came that a stranger had been discovered by the roadside dead. To attempt to describe the misery of the wife would be impossible, and to aggravate the situation, to still more deeply aggrieve the trouble laden woman, a letter came with the news that one of their children was very ill at home.

Jake and Alfred mounted the horses and rode to the point where the dead man was found. They arrived previous to the coroner; the body had not been removed. It was a lonely place on the pike. Two or three country folk stood near the fence, recounting for the tenth time the circumstances attending the discovery of the body. The darkness, the presence of death, were surroundings to which Alfred was not accustomed.

The body lay about twenty yards from the road under a big tree. As they climbed the fence and faced towards the spot, a stench met their nostrils. They looked at each other. Jake was the first to recover his speech: "Phew! If dot's Bolmur, he iss spiled werry queek."

Alfred reclimbed the fence. Jake looked over the dead man and remarked: "It don'dt look more like Bolmur as you do." Mounting their horses they were soon back at the tavern. The wife gazed appealingly at them as they entered, and, in a trembling voice, asked: "No news?"

"No, it vasn't him, he iss been dedt a veek or two." Jake spoke as if disappointed that the dead man was not Palmer.

Later, Alfred was lying on the bed laughing, Jake, looking at him with a smile which spoke inquisitiveness more plainly than he could have articulated the word, inquired: "Vot you laffin at? You laff like a tam fool. It makes me feel like a tam fool, too; I kan't tell but vot you iss laffin at my back."

This only brought more laughter. Finally, Jake began laughing also. "I see, you iss laffin becos I toldt Mrs Bolmur dot de dedt man vos spildt."

"Why, Jake, the manner in which you gave the news to her sounded as if we were disappointed that the dead man was not Palmer."

Jake arose, walked over to Alfred, his face assuming a serious aspect: "It's a werry great bitty for der poor heart-broken-down woman dot it was not Bolmur."

Gideon telegraphed from Cumberland that Palmer was there; that he would arrive on the next train. Jake and Alfred had the panorama all set. Night came on and neither Gideon nor Palmer had arrived. No train was scheduled to arrive until midnight. Mrs. Palmer was too nervous, too ill to give any advice or to even offer a suggestion.

"Could she play the music as usual if they went on with the exhibition?" "Yes, she would get a cup of tea and be ready for her part of the work."

Alfred arranged with the son of one of the church members to take charge of the financial end. Jake said he could do the part of Christian and he was sure that he would not make any mistakes.

The church was crowded. Alfred had assured himself a thousand times that he could go through the whole dialogue. He was correct but there was quite a difference in the delivery of the impassioned speeches; the weak voice of an amateurish schoolboy could not impress the auditors as would that of an elocutionist with a deep musical voice.

The panorama did not give its usual satisfaction although Jake, to his credit, went through his part without a mistake. But he did so in such an awkward, halting way, that it seemed like anything but a character to excite sympathy; in fact, his fall into the Slough of Despond was so clumsy that he injured one of his knees. All the while he was rolling about, supposed to be sinking, he was holding his knee in both hands and crying: "By yimminy crickitts, Uh! Uh!"

People sitting near the platform were tittering and laughing.

Gideon and Palmer arrived sometime during the night. Gideon was up and about early. He advised that Palmer would be all right by night.

Gideon appeared more ill at ease than Alfred had ever seen him. Back of the scenes was Palmer so drunk he could barely articulate. He looked at Jake and Alfred as they entered and said: "I—can't—work—tonight; go—on—with—the—performance. I'm going—to—bed." With this he stretched himself out on the floor. Jake and Alfred gathered him up and laid him none too gently to one side of the stage.

Confusion or some evil spirit awakened Palmer. He walked out into the auditorium. Sitting near his wife, he attracted the attention of many of the audience by giving orders, not only to his wife but in one or two instances he shouted at Alfred. This so completely unnerved the wife that she actually made mistakes in the music cues. This confused all and the exhibition was terribly marred.

The minister of the church was outraged. He ordered the panorama removed at once and Palmer ejected. The town marshal escorted Palmer out.

Alfred was so angry at the tantalizing remarks Palmer had cast at him from the audience that he did not dare trust himself near the man. He warned Jake: "If that Palmer speaks to me I will slap his face until it is as red as he made mine."

The marshal, through Gideon's pleadings, did not lock Palmer up but carried him to the tavern. Gideon placed him in bed and returned to the church to escort the wife to the tavern.

When Alfred and Jake appeared, Gideon was pleading with Palmer to go to his room. Palmer was demanding drink, the landlord informed him that he sold no drink nor would he permit drink carried into his house.

Alfred, ashamed of the man, walked out on the sidewalk. Palmer forced his way out, Gideon feebly holding him. Palmer gave the feeble old man a push that would have sent him headlong into the gutter had Alfred not caught him. Alfred stood Gideon on his feet.

Palmer backed off a pace or two, bowing and feinting as if to fight. He cried mockingly: "Who, who art thou? What kind of meat does this, our Caesar feed upon that he should thus command us?" Putting up his hands prize-fighter fashion, he sparred towards Alfred. He made pass after pass as if to strike the boy who stood motionless, permitting Palmer's fists to fly by his face without moving or dodging.

Whether through Alfred's passiveness or by mistake, one of Palmer's fists landed square on the nose of Alfred. The red blood spurted over his shirt front. Before Jake or Gideon could interfere, Alfred had the man by the coat collar raining open handed slaps on his face, slaps that so resounded they could be heard above the confusion and bustle of the encounter.

Palmer had become as a madman. Seizing Alfred's arm in his teeth, sinking them into the flesh, he held on like a bulldog. The blows Alfred rained on the man's face had no effect on him and it was only when beaten into insensibility that the jaws relaxed.

The light was dim on the outside and those near by did not realize that Palmer was biting the boy. The severe punishment he meted out to Palmer did not meet with the approval of many. However, after they were separated and Alfred exposed his lacerated arm the talk turned the other way: "He did not give him half enough."

The landlord sent for a doctor; the arm was treated. Mrs. Palmer assisted in binding up the wound. Alfred felt so humiliated he scarcely knew how to thank her. He requested the doctor to go up and see Palmer, but the good wife had attended to his injuries.

Palmer, his wife and Gideon, decided to travel to the next stop by train. All day on the road Jake and Alfred were debating as to the course they would pursue. Jake was inclined to demand a settlement at once. Alfred persuaded him to hold off until he heard from home, then he would endeavor to collect the amount due his father, and if Jake desired to travel, he, Alfred, would organize a minstrel show and they would go on the road right.

The panorama was set. Gideon was at the church but Mrs. Palmer and her husband had not put in an appearance. Alfred ran out to the door to inquire of Gideon as to whether Palmer would be on hand. Gideon assured him that the husband and wife had left their lodgings with him and should be at the church at the present time.

Alfred ran back to the panorama. As he passed behind the curtain he came face to face with Palmer. A badly bruised, black and blue face was that into which the boy gazed. He was strongly inclined to take the man by the hand and beg his forgiveness.

Jake, when advised of Alfred's feelings, said: "Vait, you kan't tell, he may make your forgiveness. It iss his place to do der beggin'; don't you make vrendts mit him till he askts you to."

Palmer worked as effectually as if nothing had occurred, although his voice was unsteady at times and slightly hoarse. Palmer kept out of view of the audience. Alfred never worked so effectually, although his arm pained him constantly. Mrs. Palmer seemed in better spirits than for a long time.

Gideon reported Professor Palmer had met with a painful accident in the last town and could not be seen—this was Gideon's statement to all inquiries for Palmer. The next morning ladies called at the tavern with flowers. The minister called; he talked to Palmer until the panorama man was so nervous he coaxed Gideon to get him whiskey.

The next night Palmer was at the church early. He was particularly deferential to Jake and Alfred. Anything they said or did he acquiesced in. Mrs. Palmer seemed like a different woman. A letter bringing good news from the sick child was ascribed by Jake and Alfred as the cause of her cheerfulness.

Gideon lingered at the church after the performance. Jake asked for one hundred dollars to be paid on the morrow. Gideon advised that the order must come from Palmer ere he could pay out the money. Jake answered: "I vill see Mr. Bolmur aboudt it early tomorrow."

Gideon begged that Jake defer it: "Palmer is just getting back to himself; if he gets excited he may go to drinking again."

"If he does ve know how to kure him, jes give him a tam goot trashing; dot's vot vill kure him. Heh, Alfredt?"

Gideon carried the news to Palmer that Alfred and Jake had combined and at any time they saw him look toward liquor they intended to give him a thrashing. Whether Gideon understood this to be the attitude of Alfred and Jake toward Palmer or whether he used the threat to deter the drunkard, is not certain. Its effect was to so embitter Palmer that he set about getting rid of Jake at once.

Mrs. Palmer was assured by Alfred that no such threat had ever been indulged in by Jake or himself.

After he had exhausted all subterfuges, Palmer grudgingly gave Jake the one hundred dollars.

Alfred was behind the scenes of the panorama dressing his sore arm. He had been thus occupied for some time when Palmer and Gideon entered and resumed a conversation they had evidently begun previously. Gideon seemed in doubt and fearful: "But how will you manage to get rid of him?" was the question he put to Palmer.

"You leave that to me and don't you give him any more money; stand pat the next time he approaches you."

"But he is a partner in the concern. If he went to law he could compel you to make an accounting from the time we began."

"What do you think I am?" and Palmer looked at Gideon in disgust. "Don't imagine for one moment of your innocent, unnecessary life that I would sell a Reuben like Jake or anyone else a third interest in this panorama for six hundred dollars. Jake has no interest excepting in the profits until he is paid six hundred dollars. After the six hundred dollars is paid he has no further claim upon me. I could pay him six hundred dollars and kick him out today, or if the panorama did not make six hundred dollars this tour he would get nothing."

"Well, it's best you pay Jake the six hundred dollars and get rid of him honestly," answered Gideon.

"I'll get rid of him. It's a hell of a nice business to carry two men with you that threaten if you don't carry yourself straight they will thrash you. I am justified in doing anything to free myself and the law will uphold me in it."

"Well, you will be compelled to get another man if you dispense with Alfred," urged Gideon.

"Oh, I can run into Baltimore and get a dozen people if I want to. However, I'd like to keep the boy; he's useful and you can trust him. But he's the damndest, greenest kid that I ever met to have had the experience he has."

"Well, he's a pretty good boy. He did all your work the night you were not here and your wife says he did it well; the boy has talent."

"Talent, hell! That's not talent; that's nerve. That's why I say he's green. Did he ever say anything to you about his arm where I bit him?" inquired Palmer.

"No; only to say it was pretty sore."

"Why the dam little fool could shook me down for all I had in the world, mayhem is a penal offence in Maryland. That's why I say he's green. I skinned his daddy out of nearly two hundred dollars. He imagines he will get it when we go to Brownsville. I'll keep this trick so dam far away from that town a crow couldn't fly to me in a week."

Alfred had a mind to walk out on the man and declare himself, but he held his peace. He sought Jake and together they consulted an attorney. Alfred's father would be compelled to bring suit where the debt was contracted, get judgment, send the transcript on before the debt could be collected. Jake did not own any of the panorama proper; his agreement gave him one-third of the profits until he was paid the sum of six hundred dollars and thirty dollars a week as hire for his team.

Alfred did not believe Palmer would do anything at once; he concluded that the talk he had overheard was of the same character as that which Palmer had indulged in so often previously.

Alfred was in bed; Jake sat by the window buried in thought. Finally Jake muttered: "To hell mit dis bizness, I vish I vas back at my home in Bedfordt." After musing in silence for some time, he muttered: "To hell mit Palmer; to hell mit Gideon; to hell mit everything but der panorama." Jake mused a few minutes. Rising to undress, he said defiantly: "To hell mit der panorama."

The following day Jake asked for an accounting. Palmer endeavored to put him off. "How much uv dis panorama I own?" asked Jake.

"Oh, Jake, what's the matter with you? You know what our contract is. Come now, you're an intelligent man, let's do business on business principles. I'll have Gideon balance the books by Sunday."

"I vant dem balanced today; my condract says dat I am der vun dots to handle der money; maybe I take holdt tonight."

Palmer became frightened. Gideon furnished Jake a statement showing the profits to be six hundred dollars and a few cents over. As Jake understood the contract he was to receive one-third of the profits, this would entitle him to $200, one hundred of which he had received.

Jake immediately demanded another hundred dollars. Palmer pleaded that he had sent his money away. Jake was obdurate. Palmer finally produced the amount.

Jake demanded that he have access to the books; both Palmer and Gideon demurred, but Jake was again triumphant. However, nothing that favored Jake was learned from them.

Hagerstown, Md.

Dear Muz:

Your letter to hand. Pap will never get his money from Palmer. He is never going to Brownsville or near there. I heard him tell Gideon, Pap was a Reuben and he had skinned him out of two hundred dollars. And Pap needn't deny it to you.

This man is awful; he will cheat anybody. I had to lick him, he nearly bit my arm off. I nearly beat his head off; it was the only way to get loose. I can't tell you all I know in one letter. Let Pap sue for his account, send the transcript on and I'll get it or I'll know why. He'll not get a chance to bite if I go at him again.

I went out to your old home yesterday; they're real nice people. I found the room where I cut my name on the walnut window frame, it's nearly rubbed out. The house looks natural but the garden and flowers are not like grandmother kept them. All the old people asked about Grandpap, Uncle John and Uncle Jake.

Stir Pap up. If I come home, I'll write you before I do.

Your affectionate son,

Alfred Griffith Hatfield.

P. S. Jake's written agreement is a fraud. If Pap has an agreement with Palmer, it's a fraud too, don't go by it. Do as I tell you, I know what's best. You'll learn law if you travel with a panorama.

The next move, to Winchester, was a long journey. One of Jake's horses having been sick, Palmer advised a day or two previously that the panorama and people, excepting Bedford Tom and Jake, would travel by train, thus relieving the team. He also promised Jake a payment on the profits at the end of the week. As an evidence of good faith he advanced Jake a week's wages.

Jake wanted Alfred to make the journey with him in the wagon, but Palmer became offended: "What do you people want to do, get rid of the work of preparation? I should take Bedford Tom with me also but I will permit him to go with you for company, but not Alfred."

Palmer gave all directions as to the roads as he always did. In fact, he cautioned Jake more particularly than usual. He also left orders that a dinner be put up for Jake and Tom to carry with them. Palmer arose early to see Jake off and again cautioned him not to lose his way.

Gideon, Palmer, the wife and Alfred boarded the train. They were to change cars at Harper's Ferry. But Alfred took the train for Winchester, Gideon excitedly calling him to take the other train. "But that train goes to Washington, the man said so," pleaded Alfred.

"Get aboard, quick," shouted Gideon, as he jumped on the moving train.

Alfred ran into the train to Palmer. "Don't we go to Winchester?" he inquired. "Not until next month," answered Palmer.

"Where's Jake and the team going?" asked Alfred. "They told me they were going to Winchester."

Palmer gave a little forced laugh: "Jake was your friend, was he not? I thought so at least. Didn't you regard him as your friend?" inquired Palmer.

"Of course I did," answered Alfred.

Palmer looked at Gideon: "I told you there was something behind this. Didn't I tell you so, eh?"

Gideon seemed undecided; he both nodded and shook his head. Palmer threw one limb over the other and rubbed his dirty hands together. "It was like this: Jake was a partner of mine. We've been having trouble for some time past. Yesterday he accepted a proposition of mine on condition that I was not to mention it to you. He stated you were friends but he did not desire to go into the minstrel business. He feared if you learned he had received his money from me you would be after him hot-foot to invest in a minstrel show."

Alfred's face flushed. He did not deny that he and Jake had conversed many times regarding a minstrel show; Jake seemed greatly interested in it. Alfred fell for Palmer's plausible story. Palmer exhibited that which he claimed was a clear receipt from Jake.

When the party arrived in Washington Alfred was so taken up with the thousand and one places of interest, he took note of nothing save sight-seeing.

Lodging at a little hotel on a side street, Palmer had not been seen for a day or two. To Alfred's inquiry, Gideon mumbled something about new people.

Mrs. Palmer became more anxious-looking every day. Alfred overheard Gideon mention Pharoah to the wife. Alfred connected the Biblical character of that name with the remark. Thinking the matter over he remembered hearing Palmer oftentimes refer to losses or gains at Pharoah. He finally connected it with some sort of a game and made bold to ask Gideon what Palmer had done about old Pharoah. Gideon, with a surprised look, asked how he knew Palmer was sitting in.

"Oh, I heard he was after old Pharoah."

"You've got the pronunciation wrong but the facts right. Palmer was one thousand ahead of the game. I begged him to cash in but that's the way with all who play faro. He didn't know enough to quit the game when he had velvet in front of him."

Palmer had lost all his money but the little savings of his wife. Gideon had a few dollars, but that went also. Alfred had twenty-nine dollars which he refused to loan Palmer. The landlord finally yielded to the arguments of Palmer and Gideon and agreed to permit the baggage to be taken to the depot and, with the panorama, shipped to the next town; he, the landlord, to accompany them until his claims were paid.

The party were off their route. No previous arrangements had been made. None of the religious denominations in the town could be induced to take an interest in the panorama. Finally, the courthouse was secured by rental, but without the influence of the church people, the receipts were not fifty per cent of what they usually were, so Palmer repeatedly stated. The hotel man had to advance money to move the company to the next place of exhibition.

Here the receipts again fell short of the expenses. The hotel man sent home for money finally. Thoroughly disgusted, the hotel man left the party with Palmer's note endorsed by Gideon. He requested Alfred's endorsement also. That gentleman remembered Sammy Steele's advice and very politely declined to attach his signature to the paper. Palmer insisted that Alfred endorse the note, arguing: "It's only a matter of form; I'll take up this note within two weeks." But Alfred did not sign.

Later on, Alfred overheard Palmer cussing Gideon's lax business methods: "Since you have been a missionary you don't know enough to top broom-corn. I told you to hold out everything on that hotel guy and you made him put up only thirteen dollars."

It developed that there were no losses while the hotel man was with the panorama. Palmer made it appear there was in order to get rid of the man.

Alfred wrote Jake a sarcastic letter advising that he thought it would have been more gentlemanly to have informed him of his dislike of the minstrel business instead of talking to Palmer. "I assisted you in every way and I thought you were my friend."

No reply came. "Jake was ashamed to answer," was the conclusion reached by Alfred.

Disgusted with Palmer, homesick, offended at his folks that they did not reply to his letter, he resolved to write no more but next pay day leave the panorama and go home. He so informed Palmer. Palmer's arguments had no effect upon him. Finally Mrs. Palmer persuaded him to remain until they could secure someone to take his place, promising to do so at the first opportunity.

"If it's not too long I'll hold out but I want to go home; I'm homesick."

Mrs. Palmer covered her face with her hands as she cried: "If there is a more distressing feeling than a longing for home I pray to God no one will ever suffer as I have. I've been homesick for years."

Palmer sneered and sarcastically granted her permission to go home at any time she wished. "You and Alfred better go home together." Alfred felt like slapping the man and would have done so had not his wife been present.

Palmer greatly interested the family with whom they were boarding. His long prayers at family worship and his eloquent talk completely captivated the entire family including two fine young men. Alfred the last day of their stay found Palmer rehearsing the elder of the two boys, the younger holding the prompter's book. Later Alfred overheard Palmer assure the old gentleman the panorama was the best money making and the most refined exhibition ever devised.

Two days later the old gentleman, his two boys and another gentleman arrived in the town where the panorama was on exhibition. The report became generally circulated that the panorama had been sold to the old man for his sons. Gideon was to remain as long as they desired his services. Alfred was also a part of the sale. Palmer advised the buyers that Alfred knew as much about the panorama as himself. Alfred very promptly informed the old gentleman that he could not remain longer. This held up the sale. Palmer coaxed, begged and implored the boy to remain with the panorama. He assured the purchasers his only reason for disposing of the panorama was his wife's health. She had been separated from her children for two years, she was a nervous wreck. He had to make the sacrifice no matter what the consequences—his wife's happiness came first. The wife's appearance more than corroborated Palmer's statement.

Finally he offered Alfred one hundred dollars to remain until the new owners learned the way of running the exhibition. Alfred's answer was: "You owe my father two hundred dollars."

"I do not, I owe him only a hundred and ninety dollars," contradicted Palmer.

"Pay my father and I'll stay."

Palmer replied: "I always intended to pay your father; I'll pay him whether you stay or not."

"When will you pay him?" asked Alfred.

"As soon as I get my money from these people."

"Will you give it to me for him?"

"No, I will not. I will pay him as I promised. Your father is not worrying about his money. We're going to paint a panorama in partnership. I expect to be in Brownsville inside of a month, just as soon as I can settle my wife at home."

Alfred agreed to remain. The sale was made, and Alfred was paid one hundred dollars. He wrote the folks at home detailing all the changes, advising that Palmer would be in Brownsville soon to paint a panorama.

Alfred remained two weeks. The new people hired an actor to take his place. They did not do well with the panorama, Gideon remained but a short time after Alfred left.

---

Palmer forgot to pay Alfred's father; he also forgot to visit Brownsville. Years afterwards Alfred met Palmer. He was painting, he was an artist, so he stated. He looked like a vagrant; there was not much change in his face, only a little more weather beaten, the lines and wrinkles deeper, the eyes more dull and his hands more dirty.

He advised Alfred that he had a contract and the work was partly done, but he could not draw any money until it was completed. "Now Alfred, you know me, you know how I have struggled, you know how the world has been against me. But I'll come back; I'll come into my own. I've got a scheme and I am working it out and it will be a winner. It will put me on Easy Street all the rest of my days."

Alfred knew all of this talk was leading up to a "touch." Alfred had mellowed in his feelings. He had sympathy for the outcast but felt he did not care to waste any charity on the man. He was figuring rapidly mentally: "I will buy him clothing and give him a small sum of money, that's all."

"Now you know my ability to earn money," continued Palmer, "and you know my family. I want you to do me a favor." ("The 'touch' is coming," thought Alfred, "I'll have to give him $20 at least.") "Now, don't refuse me. I will have money as soon as this job is done, and I'll send it to you; I don't want you to give me nothing. I want you to loan it to me. Now Alfred, don't go back on me."

"Well, business is none too good and I have heavy expenses and calls like yours every day. How much do you want?" cautiously inquired Alfred.

"Loan me a dollar," pleaded Palmer.

Alfred handed the man two dollars with a sigh of relief, crediting himself with eighteen. "Where are Mrs. Palmer and Gideon?" asked Alfred.

"Oh, Gideon died years ago. He hadn't nothing to live for; he just laid down and died. Mrs. Palmer is at home; I've got a fine home. The children—oh, one of them married a big orange grove man in California and the other is with her mother."

Alfred afterwards learned that Gideon was dead; that the contract Palmer was working on was decorating mirrors in bar-rooms. Mrs. Palmer was living with relatives. Palmer had not contributed to her support in years. One of the girls was cashier in a store in Kansas City, the other a nurse in a sanatarium.

Palmer died of alcoholic dementia only a year or two ago.

Jake is living in Bedford; he began where he left off—on the farm. When Alfred met Jake he summed up his panorama experience thusly: "Balmur cheated us all; he cheated everybody und got no good oudt uv it. He stoled the letters I wrote you und made you badt frednts mit me. But it iss all gone now and so iss Balmur. I dond't know vich vay he iss gone. He sed I valked straight into hell mit der panorama; I hope he valks straight oudt of it. If he does get in I'll bet dey haff a hard yob to keep him dere; he neffer stays no place long; und I'll bet dey'll be gladt ven he leaves—dat iss if he makes es much troubles in hell as he didt mit der panorama."

It is not necessary to state that Palmer sent Jake to a place he never intended visiting with the panorama. Jake, confused and deceived, made his way home.

---

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN]

Something each day—a smile,
It is not much to give,
But the little gifts of life
Make sweet the days we live.

The world appears different to different persons; to one it is dull, to another bright. Contentment has much to do with it. The pleasant and interesting happenings crowded into the life of one being may arouse envy in another.

The man of genius, the man of imagination will note things in the every-day trend of human affairs that will enrich his memory, store it with wisdom. The man of dulled faculties will never see things in this world as does he who is of a higher intelligence. Two men may travel in a country strange to them, their impressions of the customs, habits of the people, conditions and appearances of the land, will be widely different.

After Alfred's return from the tour with the panorama he became the Sir Oracle of the town. The shoe-shops of Frank McKernan and Nimrod Potts were the gathering places of those who came to hear the stories that Alfred had collected in his travels. Previously the atmosphere of the two shoe-shops had been different. McKernan's shop was the gathering place of those who lived under the teachings of Thomas Jefferson, they were Democrats; the audiences at Pott's shop had formerly been composed of abolitionists.

Nimrod Potts had been an avowed abolitionist.

A change had come over him, politically at least. From a rabid abolitionist he had changed to a dignified Democrat, nor was it lust for office that wrought the change—that unholy feeling which influenced Horace Greeley, who was Potts' political god. Greeley, after twenty-five years of vituperation and personal abuse, such as was never before applied to opponent by political writer, denouncing those who were opposed to his opinions, as representing all that was of vice and violence, crawled to those he had abused for years begging their votes, willing to pretend to espouse their principles to attain office. Horace Greeley's seeking and accepting a Presidential nomination did more to discredit partisan journalism in this country than all other causes combined since the establishment of the Republic.

Dr. Patton, a clean cut man, was the Democratic nominee for Burgess (mayor) of Brownsville. The Doctor was slightly aristocratic in his bearing, and a number of his own party were dissatisfied with his candidacy, although a nomination on the Democratic ticket was equivalent to election. Nimrod Potts was the nominee of the Republican, radical and abolition element; no one imagined Potts had a living chance of election.

The times were propitious for the elevation to office of those of humble origin. Andrew Johnson, a tailor, was then President (by accident). The argument was used, "Why not elevate Nimrod Potts, the cobbler, to the highest office within the gift of the electorate of Brownsville?"

Alfred had unconsciously boosted the candidacy of Potts by publicly announcing that he had visited the tailor shop of Andrew Johnson while in Greenville, Tenn., and that the shoe-shop of Nimrod Potts in Brownsville was much larger and more pretentious than the tailor shop of the man who was then President; and since the qualification for holding or seeking office in those days seemed to be graduation from some sort of a shop, Potts' claims should be considered.

Whether it was this statement or the vagaries that at times influence the minds of voters, Potts was elected.

It is a peculiarity of human nature that people neglect little bills—bar bills, cobbling bills, etc. Now every man in Brownsville did not run bar bills, but every man wore shoes (except in summer). Nimrod Potts had a list of names in the debtor column of his book embracing some of the best known men and hardest men on shoes in town.

When Nimrod instituted what he considered needed reforms in the judiciary system, certain ones of the borough's citizenship—although they had never heard of the Recall—Brownsville had not advanced that far toward Socialism as yet—instituted proceedings in the county court, impeaching Potts. He was removed from office. Those who instituted the ouster proceedings were Republicans. Alfred's Uncle William, who was judge of the court, was a Democrat.

Potts evidently reasoned that it was but natural that a Democratic judge should decide to remove him, but to be assailed by his own party was too much for even his fealty. Hence he proclaimed himself a Democrat and was received with open arms by that party.

The causes that led up to the removal of Nimrod Potts as Burgess of Brownsville are recorded in history. However, the reader may have failed to note this famous "causus bellus" or forgotten it. In expounding the law two points were always kept in view by Burgess Potts—the Constitution of the United States and his cobbling accounts. If either the plaintiff or defendant were indebted to the cobbler, justice was meted out as the law required, with the addition of the amount due for cobbling. The cobbling bill was always added to the costs. If both parties to the case were indebted to the judge the law was bent to apply to the assessing of costs with the cobblers' bills added.

Potts felt the honor that Alfred had conferred upon him in likening him to Andrew Johnson. The gatherings at Potts' shop, of which Alfred was the center of attraction, became more conspicuous than the assemblages at McKernan's. As may be inferred there was bitter rivalry between the two shoe-makers.

It was not long ere doubts were expressed as to the correctness of the word pictures Alfred painted of the country and its people through which he had journeyed while with the panorama. Some folks who had emigrated to Brownsville from Virginia and Maryland could not remember anything of the scenes that Alfred described. Others remembered just such things as he pictured.

Barney Barnhart, who was from Shepperdstown, not only verified Alfred's stories relative to the section where he formally resided but actually bettered some of them.

Alfred was in high repute. He had regained all the prestige lost through his unfortunate connection with Eli. Working for his father by day, relating his panorama exploits by night, he was leading an exemplary life. Some folks ascribed his changed ways to the great moral uplift of the panorama. Uncle Ned gave Palmer credit for the reformation of the boy. Consequently they held Palmer in highest estimation. Alfred had not uttered one word derogatory to Palmer to anyone as yet. He was secretly hoping Palmer would put in an appearance and paint another panorama, that he might get control of it. He felt riches awaited anyone who possessed a panorama.

Even when Alfred pushed a large pumpkin in the round hole of the chimney on Potts' shoe-shop, smoking out the largest gathering to which he had ever described "The Pilgrim's Progress" as shown in panorama—while the auditors stood on the outside of the shop fanning the smoke from their faces with their hats, Alfred, Phoenix-like, stood in the middle of the shoe-shop reciting Palmer's lecture. Alfred was never suspected of smoking his audience out. Instead Potts hiked across the street to Jake Sawyer's grocery and accused Jimmy Edminston of smoking out the temple of justice.

Alfred's talks and recitals aroused considerable interest in John Bunyan's work, "The Pilgrim's Progress." Many were the arguments over the propriety of the work as presented by Palmer's panorama.

Lin said: "Fur the life of me I kan't figger out how Bunyan hed ever hoped thet Christian would turn out good after the load saddled on his shoulders an' the trubles he wus sent through. Why, the devil wouldn't try tu win anyone by abusin' 'em thet way. I do not blame Jake fur kickin' over the traces an' takin' the wrong path, kos I'd jes soon gone tu hell as some uv the places they sent Christian tu."

It was explained to Lin that the book was written as an allegory and the sufferings were to try Christian's faith.

"Allegery or Perregary, I don't kur which. It's jes es bad es burnin' peepul tu deth tu make 'em Christians. Besides, I don't think much uv Christian nohow, the book shows he run away, an' left his wife an' two childrun."

However, it was generally admitted that the panorama had greatly benefited Alfred. Sammy Johnson was no longer teased by him; Alfred even assured him that the Presbyterian Church would soon have a bell and he would be employed to ring it. Ringing a church bell was Sammy's hallucination. Alfred could even enter Johnny Tunstall's grocery, as he no longer shouted "Wrang hule" at the old gentleman. Alfred no longer associated with his former companions, but was more often seen with Teddy Darwin, John LeClair and other good boys.

The Civil War, the Presidential campaign, the fight between the rival steamboat lines, had kept old Brownsville pretty well stirred up for several years, but nothing equaling the excitement caused by the campaign between Potts and Patton had ever been experienced in the old town. Torch-light processions were the popular way of arousing enthusiasm. It was the general belief in those days that the fellow who carried the biggest blaze in the procession was the fellow of most importance. Nowadays it's the fellow who buys the oil and sits on the porch and watches the procession go by.

Cousin Albert was an ardent adherent of the Potts faction. Alfred's father was just as strong for Patton. The father was well disposed toward Albert but he was very much disgusted with Albert's fondness for torch-light processions, particularly when Albert bore a transparency on which was painted, in crude letters, a motto most offensive to Patton men.

The father more than once intimated that Alfred was a very dull boy in some respects. "He can play practical jokes on people who should be exempt, and jokes in which no one but Alfred could see the humor. But there's Albert, who has laid himself liable to have any sort of a joke played upon him, goes Scott free."

Therefore Alfred fancied any joke perpetrated upon Cousin Albert must be pretty strong or the father would stamp it as inane and without humor.

Handbills advertised there would be a parade of the Potts club and the route was given. Alfred knew that Cousin Albert would be at the head of the marchers, bearing a very large transparency, with an offensive motto painted by his father's competitor, Jeffries.

Alfred procured a piece of duck canvas, water proof, about one yard square. Repairing to the Bowman's pasture lot where the cows spent the night near the gate, Alfred, with a scoop shovel, filled the canvas with a half bushel or more of fertilizer. He carried it to Sammy Steele's old tan house where he had once carried food to the exiles. An old finishing table stood under a window from which the sash had long since disappeared. One standing on the table at the opening was six or seven feet higher than the narrow street below.

Drums were beating, the procession was coming, the candle torches showed the parade turning Hogg's corner off Market Street; they were coming toward the old tan-yard. Alfred stood at the window with the canvas containing the mass of fertilizer. As the head of the parade came opposite he could see Cousin Albert outlined against the white-washed fence on the opposite side of the street. Swinging the package a time or two to give it momentum, as one does a club, Alfred loosened his hold on three corners of the canvas. The mess slid out as he had planned it would. He aimed all of it at Cousin Albert.

Alfred was pretty sure aim generally, but he had not experimented with the sort of ammunition he was using on this occasion; he was not familiar with its scattering qualities. Alfred did not have time to either see or hear how his aim had affected Cousin Albert. There was an angry confusion of yells and curses extending down the line of march. Alfred felt sure that something awful had happened.

"Catch him! Hang him!" There was a shuffling of feet in the darkness. Those at the head of the procession had dropped their torches. Alfred's joke on Cousin Albert had spread to some twenty others; in fact, all in line opposite the window were included in the joke.

There was a rush for the old tan-house. Alfred flew. Down the stairs, over the fence, through the widow Cunningham's, across the street, through Captain Cox's yard and into his home, the thoroughly frightened boy fled.

Pete Keifer, who had been in the army, a ninety day man, one of the first to go to the front at the call of duty, one of the first to leave for home after Bull Run, was most vehement in his threats on the lives of those who had broken up the torch light procession. Keifer's hearing was undoubtedly affected by the two pound lump that struck him in the ear, and some scattering. Sammy Rowland's white shirt front caught a cluster as large as a saucer. His wife said she had a feeling something was going to happen when he put on a biled shirt on a week day.

Aaron Todd, who wore a set of whiskers that would have sent him to the Senate had he lived in Kansas, carried home concealed in his whiskers a pound or so of Alfred's joke.

Alfred lay in bed trembling. Every sound, every footstep on the street startled him. When the father returned home he trembled until the bed shook, fearing it was the mob entering the house. He heard his father laughing, also the mother; then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Pretending to be sound asleep he snored loudly. As his father neared the bed he pretended to suddenly awake. The parent carelessly inquired: "How long you been in bed?"

"Oh, I don't know how long, I've been asleep. Why? Is there anything happened?" asked Alfred as he pulled the clothes up over his head to hide his laughter.

The father replied: "Yes there has and I feared you were mixed up in it. I am glad you came in early tonight." Then the father informed Alfred that some half a dozen rowdies had hidden in the old tannery and bombarded the Potts procession with all sorts of missiles and things. He told of the rage of Keifer, the plight of Todd, etc.

Alfred was sorry the joke on Cousin Albert had miscarried but it seemed to him the hand of fate guided his aim, as all those who suffered were unfriendly, all save Sammy Rowland. He was a good friend with whom Alfred had labored in the tan-yard.

Alfred went to sleep laughing and arose laughing. His mirth excited comment; it was so continued. The mother often asserted that Alfred, from the time he was a baby, always awoke laughing in the morning. But his mirth was so uproarious this morning that it caused the father to look worried.

Finally, he called Alfred into an adjoining room. Looking him full in the face he asked: "Did you have a hand in that affair last night?"

Had Alfred been threatened with death he could not have suppressed his laughter. The more he laughed the more serious the father became. He had become satisfied that Alfred was connected with the reprehensible act. The father continued threateningly:

"Well, my boy, you keep on, there will be an end to this kind of work. I cannot protect you if it gets out on you; it will be the worst blow you ever inflicted upon this family." Thus the father talked until Alfred said: "Well, Pap, I hope you are not going to connect me with this thing just because I laughed."

"No, but I have a feeling that you know something of it. Those associated with you in this thing will be very apt to blame it all on you."

"Oh no, they won't. Now, just because I laugh you're going to swear this thing onto me."

"I am not," replied the father. "The whole town is laughing for that matter but it will go none the less hard with those engaged in it. I wouldn't go over in town if I were you," advised the father as he left the room.

Alfred made his way to Potts' shoe-shop, passing the old tan-house on the way. Broken transparency, bits of candles, and other odds and ends were scattered over the ground. The white-washed fence opposite the window in the old tan-house had the appearance of a field covered with snow, with here and there a bit of cedar shrubbery growing on it.

Dennis Isler, Jim Johnson and Piggy Mann were under suspicion. Alfred stood among the crowd and listened in silence to each description of the scene. No two had seen it alike; one man swore there were half a dozen shots fired, another declared a brick knocked the hat off his head without injuring him in the least.

Alfred returned home. The mother and Lin repeatedly inquired as to what he was laughing at. Lin finally, when the mother was not within hearing, with an air "you may fool everybody else but you can't fool me" half whispered: "I know ye done hit. Everybody wud know hit wus ye. Why, look at yer pants laig, up thar in the room, the marks is on hit."

Alfred flew up stairs. The right leg of a fairly good pair of pants was amputated just above the knee. The mother wondered why Alfred gave those pants to Cal Pastor (who had but one leg).

The Clipper had become very friendly. There was scarcely an issue that there was not a complimentary reference to the rising young actor, "an ex-attachee of this paper." The Clipper carried a graphic write-up of the disrupting of the Potts procession. It was headed: "A Dastardly Attempt to Defeat Potts by Discouraging His Supporters." "A most unexpected and unprepared-for assault was perpetrated upon an orderly procession of Brownsville's honest toilers, who were assaulted in the darkness of night with murderous missiles and other things, in a heated campaign with momentous issues involved. The hurling of foul epithets is bad enough but when political opponents hurl such things as were hurled at the Potts adherents it is time to call a halt. Many who were injured by the fusillade declare the onslaught was so unexpected; they were so completely taken by surprise that, had they been killed and interred the assault would not have been more surprising to them. Among those who were in the worst of the affray was that gallant soldier and shingle maker, Peter Keifer. He has also seen service in assisting in arresting Sam Craft who was drafted. Mr. Keifer will devote his time to running down the hellish brigands who are a menace to the liberty of the ballot. Mr. Keifer says he will not be deterred in his purpose."

Among those employed by Alfred's father was one, Node Beckley—"Noah" was his proper name, but all, including his wife, called him Node. In personal appearance he was not unlike Palmer; spare and wiry, slim-faced, a large hooked nose, a tuft of beard on his chin. He had no particular calling or trade; first a hotel keeper, then a house or boat painter, paper hanger or decorator, saloonkeeper, book-agent, banjo player and cheap gambler. He was good-natured. His wife was the head man of the family; what Node lacked in spirit she made up in talk. Node was kind in his way to his wife and children, who accepted his efforts in their behalf without any untoward semblance of gratitude and with many complaints that he did not do more for them. Consequently Node was always on the hustle, or as near so as his indolent disposition would permit him to be.

Isaac Jacquette, John Barnhart, Jim Mann, Cousin Charley and others were continually teasing Node over his many unsuccessful ventures. Node did not always take their joshings good naturedly but would remind them that his time was coming, that he would yet strike a lead that would bring him fortune. He had hinted so often in this manner that Alfred became convinced Node was working on something in secret and became interested in him. The other men ascribed Alfred's fondness for Beckley to the fact that he could perform on the banjo; they often suggested that Alfred and Beckley start a minstrel show.

"A boy's sense all runs to heart; A boy never sees the dark spots on the character of the man he fancies."

Node Beckley was not a man of bad character. Alfred's father dispensed with Beckley's services that he might disrupt the intimacy between the two.

Node opened a saloon, the Rialto, on the corner of Barefoot Square and Market Street. Alfred's father forbade him ever to enter the place. Alfred obeyed. The familiarity continued, the man and boy were often seen together on the street. Cousin Charley tracked them to the barn of the old James Beckley Tavern. Alfred's father feared he was gambling; all the gambling in those days was in haymows or unoccupied buildings in winter, under the trees in summer. The games were "Seven Up" and "Euchre".

Node was of an inventive turn of mind. It is not known whence came the inspiration, nor is it certain that there was an inspiration. However, it can be recorded to the glory of Brownsville that the first flying machine or airship was the invention of a citizen of the old town.

The flying machine was the mysterious creation that Node had so often hinted at. Alfred was deeply interested in the aerial machine. It was planned that the invention should be kept secret from all. Harriet, his wife, knew he was working on an invention of some sort, as he had been engaged in this sort of experimenting a greater part of the time since they wedded. When his perpetual motion machine failed to work "Had" Beckley had lost interest in Node's inventions. Hence, the flying machine under process of construction was known only to Alfred and the inventor. It was their intention to completely surprise the world at large and that part of it in particular bounded by the Brownsville borough lines, by having Node flit over the town and perhaps over the river; then later on, to Uniontown, to Pittsburg and other cities. Then Alfred and Node would travel all over the world exhibiting the flying machine.

In those days steam was the only propelling power. Gasoline engines were unknown, electricity had not been harnessed except for telegraphing. The propelling power of Node's flying machine lay in the arms and legs of the one who soared in it.

The invention was a very simple contrivance, from which very fact Node argued it would be successful. There were two large wings, nine feet in length and of a proportionate breadth, constructed of very light material, and, at Alfred's suggestion, covered with feathers. Alfred felt it would be more apt to fly if it wore feathers. Every backyard, wherein a family killed chickens, ducks or turkeys, was ransacked for feathers. The variegated plumage of the machine would have defied the most learned of ornithologists in defining the species of the bird family to which it belonged.

There was what Node termed a "rear extension." Alfred invariably alluded to it as "her tail." Why he applied the feminine gender to the machine was another of those vagaries of which inventors are always possessed.

Node termed the wings, "side-propellers." The arms of the aerialist were thrust through loops under the wings, hand-holds were at the proper length from the base of the wings. There was a light frame, to which the wings were attached; two light ropes, through pulleys worked by the feet, flopped the rear extension up and down. The rear extension could be also used as a steering apparatus. The entire thing depended upon the movements of the arms. After the machine was far and away up in the air, it would sail as do eagles and buzzards, so Node asserted.

The only doubt Node had was as to possessing strength to raise the thing to the proper height. When he once got in the air, he had no fears of staying there.

Alfred suggested that the first start be made from the steeple of the Episcopal Church. Node seemed pleased with the suggestion. Later, when they walked by the church and gazed up at the heights Node concluded the wings and rear extension would have sufficient air pressure to make the rise from a hill.

The work had progressed to the point where an experimental trial was in sight. Node had been strapped in the frame-work several times. The wings worked perfectly; that is, so long as Node's arms kept in motion. The rear extension did not work so well. Node explained that it would not work until the thing got up in the air where his feet would have free play. He would sit astraddle of a bench, Alfred would hold the frame off the floor, and Node would work his feet. Her "tail" would wobble and fly up and down at a great rate. Its eccentric actions excited the admiration of Alfred. He assured Node that her tail would be the wonder of the world.

"Why, Black Fan's tail never flew around like that, even when she got in the bumble-bee's nest," asserted Alfred.

Node had made several attempts to raise himself from the barn floor, but there was not space to work the machine properly. They determined to arise early some morning, take the machine to Hogg's field, just below the pike and give it a trial. The apparatus was carefully carried to the little mound on the high hill overlooking Dunlap's Creek.

Alfred cautioned Node not to fly down the hill, because it would be a job to carry the machine up the hill.

Trying Out the Flying Machine

Lin, gazing out of the kitchen window at the chickens picking around in the yard, said: "Lor' a-mighty! What's happened them chickens? They ain't one uf 'em got the shadder uf a tail."

Alfred had even stolen the big fly brush, made of peacock feathers, to birdify Node's flying machine. The extreme end of the rear extension held the long peacock feathers.

That the bird man idea should be carried out Alfred had made a head dress of turkey feathers down the nape of the neck, and chicken feathers in front. When placed on Node's head, with his beaked nose and tuft of chin beard, he appeared very much as one would picture Uncle Joe Cannon robed in Maude Adams' "Chanticler" costume.

Node was strapped in the frame, his arms adjusted to the wings, and Alfred adjusted the head dress against Node's violent protest. He argued: "The dam thing will get over my eyes and I am liable to fly into a tree top. Take it off. I'll wear it after I get the hang of this thing, after I fly awhile."

Several attempts were made at a rise. The rear extension always got out of gear; the ropes and pulley tangled in the rigging. It was decided that Alfred hold the rear extension aloft. Node would run down the hill a few feet launching himself into the air.

Alfred assured Node that he could be of even greater assistance. While the machine was in course of construction Node had his own way in everything. Now he was strapped in the apparatus and any innovation Alfred insisted upon he was powerless to reject. Therefore Alfred hastened home. There was not a clothes prop in his father's garden long enough to suit his ideas, therefore, he ran to the next door neighbor's, Alex Smith's, selecting the longest prop he could find. Hastening to the scene of the ascension, he found Node in anything but an amiable mood.

"What the devil do you mean by strapping me in this thing and running all over town to find a pole to push me up in the air? Do you s'pose I want you to pole me like a raft? You hold up that end of the thing and I'll fly."

Node was mad enough to fly. Against his angry protests Alfred inserted the end of the pole between his legs, held up the tail part of the machine, encouraging Node to take a running start, when he got the proper momentum to shout "Now," and he, Alfred, would give him a lift that was bound to shoot him into the air.

They backed up the hill. Node lowered his arms, the wings resting on the ground, resting himself a bit; turning his bird-like head toward Alfred he asked if there was anyone watching them. Node was evidently not sure in his mind that the flight would be successful. When assured by Alfred that there were no witnesses Node cautioned him not to lift too strongly on the pole which was still between his legs. Looking up in the air as if to gauge the height to which he intended to ascend, he said: "Now get ready and stand by if anything happens when I light."

"Ready?" asked Node, in an eager voice.

"Let her go," was Alfred's reply.

Down the hill ran the two. "Now!" shouted Node.

Alfred put all his power into the lift he gave the man-bird. Node seemed to arise. One of the ropes caught around Alfred's neck nearly severing one of his ears. Alfred fell headlong, rolling over two or three times.

When he arose he directed his gaze heavenward, expecting to see Node soaring through the air. Curses and struggles from a point twenty feet down the hill disclosed the whereabouts of the inventor. Node was lying there, the apparatus in a tangled heap. It was with considerable labor, made more difficult as he was weak from laughter, that Alfred released Node. Criminations and recriminations followed. Node swore he had started on a beautiful flight; he could feel himself going up as light as a soap bubble, just then Alfred's damn fool head-piece flopped down over his eyes, blinding him so he couldn't see what he was doing. He quit flapping his wings and fell like a log. If it hadn't been for the head dress there's no telling where he would have flown to.

Alfred contended that the tailpiece caught on one of his ears and pulled the bird-man back out of the air. As proof he exhibited the lacerated ear. Alfred had assured Node that there were no witnesses. However, the aeronauts had an audience. Jake Beeca and Strap Gaines stood in the road below; Pete Williams, Billy Brubaker and a couple of strangers were looking down from the pike above; Johnny Johnson and Widdy Gould were gazing on the wreck from their back yards. Mary Hart, Jim Hart and Mrs. Smith were at the front gate, inquiring of Lin and Alfred's mother the cause of the strange procession then passing.

The End of the Flight

Node came first. He had forgotten his hat and shoes, laid aside to lighten him for his flight, his clothes were literally bespattered with soft, brown earth, his nose scratched, one of his hands bleeding; on his head the bedraggled feather cap. Following behind came Alfred, one ear bleeding, his clothing covered with dirt. In his arms he carried the wrecked flying machine, the rear extension dragging, the beautifully colored peacock feathers trailing the dirt.

Node, with bowed head and abashed manner, walked as though going to his execution. Alfred could scarcely walk at all, the ludicrous ending of the flight, appealed so to his mirth.

Lin gazed curiously at the two as they passed. She scrutinized the flying machine closely, the feathers, the head-dress on Node. She entered the house: "Well, Mary," (addressing the mother), "I've seed a good many funny sights sence Alfurd's been ole enuf tu run aroun' but I'll be durned ef this one ain't the cap sheaf."

"What's happened now?" anxiously queried the mother.

"Well, I ain't seed enuf tu jes zackly say what it is but hit looks like Alfurd hed turned his mind tu a Injun show. He's got Node Beckley into hit; they has things all trimmed with feathers. Now you know what has made our chickens look so bobbed; they ain't one uf 'em thet's got es much tail feathers es a blue bird in poke berry time. An' yer peafowl feather duster,"—here Lin raised her hands—"why they ain't enough left to shoo a pis-ant, let alone a fly. Lor' Mary, hit's orful, they must-a had a sham battul or a war, fer Node is kivered with blood an' Alfurd looked peeled in several places. Node had on a ole feather head dress, barefooted 'ceptin' socks, no hat or coat, kivered with dust and so was Alfurd. He was carryin' the Injun fixin's and laffin'; laffin', why you'd think hit wus the bigges' frolik in the world. Node looked jes es Joe Sandford looked when he shed his wall-paper show duds. I'll jes run over an' see what Had Beckley has tu say. I'll bet she'll rear an' charge when Node gets home."

"Good mornin' Mrs. Beckley, how's all?" was Lin's greeting.

"Won't you walk in, we're all upside down here; walk in ef you can git in fur the dirt and cluttered up house. Node's been up and gone for two hours; I'm waitin' fur him to kum so we kin eat breakfus an' clean up. I have no idee whar he is; your Alfred an' him's together nite an' day now."

Lin looked surprised as she repeated, "Nite an' day? An' what do ye s'pose they is up tu, Mrs. Beckley?"

"Well, I dunno. Node's allus got some notion or other in his head. I never pay no tension to him; ef hit ain't one thing hit's anuther. I rekon hit's a patent rite concern. He's been putterin' on pattern things ever sence we wus married."

"Do they run out at nite much, Node an' Alfurd?" Lin asked.

"Why, every blessed nite and all day Sundays."

Lin suggested: "Maybe they go to Baptus meetin'. Thar havin' a revivul; maybe Node an' Alfurd's thinkin' of jinin' the Baptus Church."

"Huh! Node would be a hell of a Baptus; he's so feared of water he hain't washed his feet this blessed wintur," snapped Mrs. Beckley.

Lin decided in her mind that Mrs. Beckley was entirely ignorant of the scheme her husband and Alfred had under way and she changed tack: "Perhaps they're startin' a show. Has yer husband talked about Injuns tu yer lately?"

"No," answered the wife in open-mouthed wonder, "have you heard they were goun' off tu fight Injuns?"

"No, no," quickly assured Lin, "I didn't mean they wus goin' tu fight Injuns. Yow know Alfurd's full of show notions, an' you know we had a Injun show yer on Jeffres Commons; hit wusn't much uf a show, nuthin' to hit. I thought maybe Node an' Alfurd had got hit into theur noodles to act Injun. Did ye see them things with feathers on them they wus draggin' aroun'? Yes, an' they got pea fowl feathers on too; bet all they hev no luck, pea fowl feathers allus bring bad luck."

Here Node entered the room. His wife scanned him, noting his skinned nose: "Eh, huh, Mr. Injun, I hope ye ain't skulped?" lifting his hat and looking at his head.

Node was considerably taken aback; he muttered something about making it go yet, "but no damn fool could pole him into the air." Poor Node imagined that his secret was out and that all knew of his dismal failure. When he learned that the feathers had deceived all and that the flying machine was looked upon as some sort of show paraphernalia, he humored the deception and admitted that he and Alfred were experimenting with Indian arms and things, thinking of giving an Indian show.

This satisfied Lin. With all her cunning she was easily deceived. Running home she advised the mother that she had guessed it the first guess.

"Lor', hit's no use fur Alfurd tu try tu fool me, I know thet thar boy better'n he knows hisself. I sed, sed I, es soon es I seed Node an' him comin' 'hit's Injun bizness this trip sure.' Why, anybody'd know thet what Alfurd was carryin' wus war hoops; war hoops is what Injuns has got more uf then most anythin' else. But I swear tu goodness I don't see how Node or Alfurd cud pass fur an Injun. Node looked like a skur-crow an' Alfred like a Tom-boy girl. Maybe Alfurd kud be Pokerhuntus an' Node Captin John Smith."

That first attempt at flying but increased the determination to make the thing a success.

The complicated gearing of the rear extension, was supported with one rope. It was double gear previously; now it was single gear. Before, it worked too rapidly and, like Black Fan when under full speed, was liable to go by the head.

Node declared again and again that it was the rear extension that caused him to shoot head-first into the earth. He had just started to rise, he felt himself going up; suddenly the rear extension flew forward, "hit me on the head, your ole Injun feathers pushed down over my eyes, and I had to head her for earth. Why I'd been a fool to gone on up in the air blinded. When a man's flying he's more anxious to see than when he's walking."

Alfred meekly suggested that the fellow with the circus walked the tight-rope blindfolded. Node admitted this fact; "But he had a foothold. If I'd had a foothold all hell wouldn't held me, I'd been flyin' yet."

Often did they settle on a date for the next flight only to have something unforeseen interfere. Node desired a cloudy day with moderate wind. Furthermore, the next flight the course was to be laid out.

Node declared with decision: "I want to have the starting and the stopping points definitely in mind, I want to know just what I am doing. I know this machine will do the work; I've got more strength in my arms than I ever had afore," and here Node would bare his spare arms and fling them about for exercise. "Yes, sir, if my arms hold out I can fly anywhere. I'll start from Town Hill, light on Krepp's Knob an' pick about a bit, rest my wings and fly back agin." Then Node would look down on the river which flowed between—he couldn't swim—and with less enthusiasm add: "But I won't do that yet; I'll wait till I get more used to the machine and the air currents. A man to fly right must understand the air currents jes as a sailor understands the course of the winds. There are currents and cross currents; sometimes they git all tangled up, then I'll just quit flappin' my wings, sink below the disturbance, and fly about below until I git out of them. The main thing is to get the rise."

"Well, I'll give you a lift," suggested Alfred.

"I want no more of your lifts," quickly answered Node.

Finally it was decided that the next flight be made from the roof of the old barn in which the flying machine was housed.

In answer to Lin's query as to what he was doing on the roof of the barn so early in the morning, Alfred carelessly answered: "Oh, I'm making a pigeon box."

Lin said it looked as if they were going to build a mighty big pigeon house.

Alfred declared it would be the proper thing to do to invite a half dozen or more friends to witness the ascension. Node dissented: "Wait until we get the rear extension to working as perfectly as the side propellers and we'll give an exhibition. If you invite anybody in this town to see me fly and anything goes the least bit wrong, they'll walk off and sneer and say: 'He'll never fly.' That's the way they did when I was working on the perpetual motion machine. I had it just about goin', and I invited two or three who I thought were my friends. They looked at it, praised me to my face and said: 'Node, by golly, you got it,' then they went right down street and told everybody that I was a dam fool and that's what disheartened me and I quit working on it. If I hadn't invited anybody to look at my work I'd had perpetual motion down to a nicety today. Why, I invented a magnet with which you could find gold or silver, no matter if it was buried ten feet deep." (It was the belief of many that there was gold buried in the hills around the old town; that eccentric, wealthy persons in the early days had buried.)

"I had this magnet," continued Node, "working to perfection. Well, I took four men with me, and we went around the Point to where a fortune teller told 'Had' there was money buried. We worked along the hill up to where the fortune teller had said the money was. The magnet swung right, then left; suddenly it stopped, then whirled around and around. We all turned pale. There was a smell in the air like the damp in a coal bank. One of the men marked the place and said: 'Node, it's too late to begin digging today; we'll dig tomorrow.' I waited all day, but none of the men came. 'Had' was all excited about it because the fortune teller had described the spot to her; she could tell it with her eyes shut. Well, we walked straight to the place, and what do you suppose?" Node waited for Alfred's reply.

"Well, I expect you found you was fooled," drawled Alfred.

"Yes, that's what we did," asserted Node, "that's jest what we did find, we was fooled, robbed, tricked. There was a hole in the ground four or five feet deep. At the bottom, just the size of a dinner plate and round as a crock, you could tell there had been a crock full of money taken out of the hole. Not one of them fellers thet was with me has ever worked a day since." (Node had forgotten that they had never worked a day previously.)

Node put his hand on the flying machine as he declared: "No, sir, no one shall know a thing about this invention until your Uncle Noah has it so he can do anything a bird can."

The allusion to the hidden wealth impressed Alfred greatly. He became certain Node would make the flying machine a success. Therefore, he built the platform on the barn longer that Node might get a better start. Alfred was strong in the belief that he could greatly aid Node with the clothes prop as before. But at the mere suggestion Node became angry. He threatened to abandon the flight if he caught sight of a clothes prop in Alfred's hands. Node knew full well once he was strapped in the machine Alfred could do anything he chose. He therefore determined that no poles or props should be taken to the roof of the old barn. Alfred had the clothes prop hidden in the barn below. Node happened to discover it, and forthwith ordered Alfred to carry it back to Alex Smith's yard. He never took his eyes off the boy until the prop was leaned against the fence in the yard of the owner.

Node swore he would inform Alex Smith the next time he went by Jacob's store that Alfred was stealing his clothes props, "And you know what that red-headed son-of-a-gun will do to you," threatened Node, as he shook his finger at Alfred.

The morning was propitious; Node said so at least. There were to be no witnesses, but Cousins Charley and George were hidden in John Fear's coal house, Baggy Allison was in Alfred's barn, Jim Hart and Mary were at the upstairs windows in Alex Smith's house—all by invitation of Alfred.

Node was very nervous. Alfred could do nothing to please him. In preparing for the first flight he had Alfred strap his arms in the wings first. He insisted all fastenings should be made ere his arms were strapped. Alfred had occasion to go below. Node watched him closely as he made his reappearance through the hole in the roof, evidently fearing he had brought a pole with him.

Finally, the side propellers were adjusted. Node flapped them a few times, stood on tip-toes, very much like a cock crowing, as Alfred encouragingly assured him that he saw him rising. "If you had only given two or three more flaps with your wings you'd been up in the air sure."

Then in a coaxing manner Alfred continued: "Now Node, if I was you I would not go too far for the first flight; just flit about, then settle and rest. Go at it moderate like."

Node seemed to gain confidence. He walked back and forth, or rather he walked forth and then back, as he could not turn about owing to the rear extension. Node declared it wouldn't bother him in the air.

Node walked to the edge of the barn some three or four times, bending his bird-like head to look down as if measuring the distance. As he backed up after looking down the last time, Alfred sort of taunted him by saying: "If you can't keep yourself from falling hard enough to hurt you, your flying apparatus ain't much account. S'pose you don't fly very high the first time, s'pose you don't fly far, with them wings and that tail you ought to settle so lightly you wouldn't break an egg shell."

This seemed to strengthen the bird-man; he drew in a few deep breaths, gazing heavenward, then across the river at Krepp's Knob, then below him at the river. Alfred was all a-tremble. He remembered that Node said: "You must mark your course, your starting point, your landing place." Alfred wondered in his mind whether Node would cross to Krepp's or only cross Dunlap's Creek over Duck Leonard's mill.

Node flapped his wings again. This time, with each flap of the wings, Alfred gave the rear extension a gentle lift. Node would rise four or five inches with each lift. He did nor realize that Alfred was lending help to his efforts. After a more forcible lift of the tail than any Alfred had yet given it, Node, turning his head, with a triumphant look, shouted: "When I say 'Three,' I'm going, but don't you do anything, jest let me handle her. Let go the rear extension."

Node's Flight

Pointing the wings heavenward, gazing up as if in prayer, raising himself on his tip-toes, straining every nerve, in a voice tremulous with excitement, he began: "One," stretching higher, he shouted: "Two," rising on his tip-toes, he reached the edge of the barn, as he fairly yelled: "Three."

The wings came down beautifully, but they did not rise again. As Node stepped off the edge of the barn he descended instead of ascending, the rear extension got sort of tangled on the comb of the roof, Node and the machine dangled in the air momentarily.

As Alfred dropped through the opening in the roof, he heard Node claw a time or two at the weather-boarding; something seemed to let go, to rip, then, there was a dull sound as of a bag of sand falling from a height to the earth.

There was the sound of footsteps coming from several directions. Alfred heard all this while he was moving faster than he had ever moved before. Node did not beat him to the earth by a great margin. As Alfred flew out of the door of the barn, he saw Jack Rathmell doubled over the fence laughing as only Jack could laugh.

Ere Node was disentangled from the wrecked airship, ere they escorted him to "Had"—he declined to be carried—Alfred was safely hidden away in Alex Smith's hay mow. Buried under the hay he kept peering through a convenient crack which gave him a view of the territory between his home and Node's residence. Somehow he figured the whole thing would be blamed on him.

First, Lin was seen with her apron around her head going toward Node's house. It was not long until she returned, walking hurriedly. She reappeared in a moment, bearing in her hands something that appeared to be bandages. Then Alfred's father came. In a moment or two he was seen going toward Beckley's house. Then, a little later, the father and two or three others, including Cousin Charley, reappeared, walking toward the old barn. Cousin Charley was evidently describing the attempted flight as he pointed to the roof of the barn. All looked up, then as Charley marked a spot on the manure pile with his foot, all looked down.

The father gathered up a part of the flying machine and carried it home. Standing at the gate he gave a shrill whistle, one that he had used to attract Alfred since he was a little boy. Alfred made no response.

Alfred did not know how badly Node was injured. He felt very sorry for him, he really liked the man. As miserable as he felt, as sorry as he was, the funny side of the affair crept into his mind and, as usual, he relieved himself with a good hearty laugh.

Alfred's laugh was cut short by a voice calling from below: "Who's that? Hey? Who's that?"

Alfred recognized Alex Smith's voice. He remained motionless for a moment.

The voice, part of the way up the ladder leading to the hay mow, called again, this time commandingly: "Who's up in the hay mow? Come down! Come down! Or I'll bring you down."

Alfred remained motionless.

"You won't come down, won't you? Well, you will when I come back." And the voice told Alfred it's owner was leaving the place.

Alfred, climbing down the ladder, left the stable just as the gate slammed announcing Mr. Smith's coming. He stood motionless as Mr. Smith approached. When the elder man recognized the boy he was somewhat surprised.

"Was that you in the haymow?"

"Yes, sir," answered Alfred.

"Why didn't you answer when I called to you?"

Alfred related the whole story. Alex Smith accompanied Alfred home. The story of Node Beckley's flying machine was gone over. The father was mollified.

Lin commented thusly: "One story is good till another's told. I jes kum from Beckley's; Node's not hurt much, jes jarred. He sed he went on the barn to test his apperatus; he wern't ready to fly. An' I don't reckun he wus an' what's more, he never will be. He wus jes straitnin' out the perpellers. He ses: 'Alfurd's been so alfired crazy to hev me fly he jes couldn't wait till I got my apperatus finished. While I wus standin' near the aidge uf the roof, my perpellers hangin' down, Alfurd snook up ahind me an' gin me a push, and afore I could raise my perpellers I wus on the groun'. If I hed knowed hit I could've saved myself an' flew off an' lit in the field.'"

Alfred asked Lin who made this statement. She replied Mrs. Beckley had told it to her.

"If Node told that story I am going over to contradict it, if his back's broken."

"Nevur mind, nevur mind," consoled Lin, "I jes tole 'Had' thet Node wus a bird, an' like all birds, he knowed which way to fly, kase I heard he headed straight fur the manure pile."

---

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN]

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For this brave old earth must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough of its own.

The world does not require the same attainments from all; it is well it is so ordered. Some persons are well taught, some are ill taught, some are not taught at all. Some have naturally good dispositions and absorb learning readily. Some are deficient in mechanical ingenuity and yet can analyze difficult mental problems.

It is no crime to fail in any pursuit or vocation, if failure is not due to idleness or deliberate preference of evil to good. There comes a time in the life of every reasoning person that they must take themselves for better or for worse, that they must take themselves more seriously.

Captain Abrams had unintentionally contributed to Alfred's discontent. He had remarked that to putty up holes, paint a board or smear a hurricane deck was not much of a trade or calling, but to be an artist like Alfred's father was a profession that would bring success.

Alfred could not drive a nail straight; he could not saw a board straight; he was such an awkward writer, the school teacher made fun of his copy book. She advised Alfred that she did this hoping that by publicly reprimanding him he would learn to write a more legible hand. "You excel in spelling, reading, geography and other studies; you should be ashamed of your writing."

The grandfather, the father, the teacher, all liked Alfred. None intended to injure his feelings, yet the taunts, the censure, just and unjust, sunk into Alfred's soul, and, he advised Captain Abrams it was only the duty he owed his father that kept him there a day.

Alfred was low in mind. He sought his father and endeavored to reason with him, but was dismissed with the argument: "You don't want to learn anything useful; if it was something connected with a show, you'd master it mighty quick."

"But father, I have no skill or sleight to work with tools."

The father interrupted with a peremptory: "Do as I did—learn."

"I can't learn," pleaded the boy, "try as I may, I'm not cut out for a mechanic. If I could work like you it would be a pleasure to me to keep at it. I'm out of all heart with my work."

The father evidently felt for the boy as he spoke in a more kindly tone: "You are not lazy; the things that you can do, you do well. Now you painted around that hull quicker than any man at work on the boat. Be a little more patient, take more pains and you'll make a good workman. I will pay you wages, try to make something useful out of yourself. You'll never amount to a hill of beans if you follow up your show notions," pleaded the father.

"Pap, I'm satisfied with what you give, it ain't that. I don't like the work. Of course, I painted the hull of the boat quickly but that's all I can do and Captain Abrams says there's nothing in puttying up nail holes and painting hulls; anybody can learn that in six months."

The father became cross again, and, in a threatening tone, said: "I am your father and it is my duty to do my best for you; I firmly believe I am fulfilling my duty as a parent in ordering you to give up all other notions as to the future and get down to business and learn this trade. Now make up your mind; go at your work with the feeling that you are determined to succeed. If you go at your work in a half-hearted way you are certain to fail."

"Well, that's the way I feel about this work; I can't learn it, I don't want to. There's a dozen other things I'd rather do and I can make more money out of them."

This stubborn talk exasperated the father, and pointing his finger at the boy to emphasize his words, he said: "First, it was circus, then it was minstrels. You tried the newspaper business, you were not satisfied."

"Why, you made me quit newspaper work," interrupted Alfred.

"Don't interrupt me again," cautioned the father, "then it was that infernal panorama. That panorama was the worst of all, it gave you the habit of roving; you've never been satisfied a day since you went off with that panorama."

"But father, you and all your family were willing I should go. You wanted me to go; I didn't want to go, I only wanted to get back the money Palmer cheated you out of."

The father thundered: "Don't you try to saddle your roving onto me. You're not satisfied in any place and never will be. Don't you ever tell me to my face again that I even hinted that you go with the panorama and I don't want you to ever mention that anybody cheated me. I'd like to see the man who can cheat me. Now you go to your work, you're not your own man yet. I am going to send you to the Merrittstown Academy this winter and I want you to settle down. You've had it too easy. When I was a boy I had to get up at 4 o'clock in the morning, make all the fires, milk four cows and feed a pen full of hogs and I had to be done by daylight. You've had it too easy, your mother is the one that's spoiled you. From this day on it's hands off with her; I'll be your boss. Now, don't let me hear more of this roving talk."

"Why, Pap, I haven't said one word about roving. Can't I do other work right here at home if I quit this, I don't have to rove, do I?"

"No, but that's the upshot of all this talk," persisted the father. "Now get down to your work; learn it."

"I can't," doggedly answered the boy. "Didn't you tell me yesterday my fingers were all thumbs? Didn't you tell me in front of all the hands that you were ashamed of me and that you didn't think it possible that a child of yours could be so ignorant and awkward."

The father stammered and colored. He was a most affectionate parent, he was truly sorry that he had humbled the pride of the boy. "Why, my son, the men all know I was only teasing you; they all know you are most intelligent. You can learn anything you set your hand to. Why, when you went to Dr. Playford to learn to be a doctor he informed me as did Bob, that they never knew anyone to learn Latin as quickly as you. You could tell us all the names for medicines. Why, Uncle Jake, Steve Gadd and Joe Gibbons told me the time they took you to Washington County to the turkey shoot, that they'd all been down sick if it hadn't been for you. They say it rained a cold rain and you all got wet. Uncle Jake is subject to the quinsy and he was on the verge of it. They tried the drug store and everywhere and they couldn't get nothing. Steve said you went to the drug store and got all they wanted, only you didn't ask for whiskey; you called it fermenting spirits. Steve said the druggist told him confidentially you ought to be a druggist, you told him things he didn't know before. Now, go at your work as you did at doctoring and you'll learn. It has been the regret of your mother's life that you did not learn to be a doctor. I've sometimes thought old Hare just pretended your medicine made him sick to get out of paying the bill. I don't think Dr. Playford cared one thing about it so far as you was concerned but the other doctors talked so about it he just had to let you go. I've always felt sorry about it because, if any of our family is taken down with a fever, Playford is the only fever doctor in town."

Arguments of this character occurred almost daily. Alfred grew more and more dissatisfied, the father more insistent. Alfred kept up his minstrel work, appearing ever and anon in amateur exhibitions. Folks kept pouring it into his ears: "Well, if I had your talent this town wouldn't hold me fifteen minutes; I'd take the boat for Pittsburg tonight. What does your father mean by holding you down in this way? Does your mother favor it? Why, your folks are standing in their own light. If I had a boy like you I'd hire him out and travel with him," was Shuban Lee's comment.

All this was not calculated to cool the ardor of an ambitious amateur. Alfred read the New York Clipper weekly. He wrote many letters to many minstrel managers to which he did not receive replies.

Charles Duprez, of Duprez and Benedict, answered one of Alfred's letters thusly:

Dear Sir:

In answer to your letter—do you double in brass?

Charles Duprez.

Alfred read and re-read the letter and finally answered:

Mr. Charles Duprez:

Respected Sir: I do not double in brass or anything else. I'm a minstrel, not a contortionist.

Alfred Griffith Hatfield.

No reply ever came. Alfred concluded the minstrel field was overcrowded or managers would not have permitted him to remain idle, especially in view of the fact that he had offered to give their full performance, for as low as twenty dollars a month, washing and mending. To one manager he added a confidential P. S.: "If you are not doing very well I can put you on to a good thing, a panorama. I'm a panoramist."

Alfred turned his attention to acrobatics. Every spare hour was spent on the tan bark pile with Lint Dutton, James Todd Livingston, Tom White and Lash Hyatt. Lint Dutton was determined to learn bare-back riding. Sneaking his father's horse from the barn, he would endeavor to stand alone on the back of the animal, Alfred playing clown and Bindley Livingston ringmaster. Mr. Dutton, after Lint had fallen and nearly broken his back, locked up the horse. Lint determined to give up bare-back riding and practice the Indian style of horsemanship. Many are the persons who had narrow escapes from being run over by Lint as his horse galloped up and down the back streets of the town, wearing the old feather head-dress that Node wore in his attempts to fly.

Alfred and Bindley Livingston constructed a trapeze. Completed, it was suspended to the roof of the cow stable; the boys spent many hours practicing. The climax of the act, Livingston, the stronger of the two, hung by his knees on the little horizontal bar above, holding Alfred by the ankles both hanging head downwards, swinging to and fro, as does the pendulum of a clock; the limitations of the stable would not permit the swinging part of the performance. A large locust tree in Bowman's pasture lot, near Alfred's home, was selected as the best possible place to try out the double trapeze act.

From a limb of the tree, Hen Ragor, the assistant in the performance, suspended the trapeze. The news spread that there would be some wonderful acting in the old pasture lot, Saturday afternoon, always a holiday to every boy and girl in old Brownsville to go fishing, swimming, nutting or berrying. On this particular Saturday all the boys and girls hied themselves to the old pasture lot; nor was the gathering confined to the younger set; a few of the adults were attracted. They stood at a distance, viewing the doings; however, not one of them but had a vantage position.

As the exercises went along, Danny Gummert, George Pee, Denbow Simpson and Alf McCormick, drew nearer. Caroline Baldwin, seated on the fence, yelled: "Come in and look out, you can see better." This brought a laugh and a few of the elders outside of the pasture sauntered a little ways off only to come nearer as the applause and laughter grew louder.

Alfred had covered himself with all sorts of glory in the numerous numbers in which he had participated. Caroline Baldwin, who, with her brothers Clarke and Charley, occupied two entire private boxes, (two panels of fence), proclaimed during an intermission that Alfred was the greatest actor in the country; "it was just shameful he was held down when people all over the country were pantin' to see him do his showin'."

Lin declared: "Nobody in eny show thet's ben yere in years kin hol' a candul tu him; they can't tech him. He kin walk ontu his hans better en some peepul kin on thar feet." Here Lin cast a withering glance at Jack Beckley that would have sobered one less saturated.

Jack returned Lin's look with a vague grin, saying: "I'm drunk and glad of it."

Lin gave him a smart push as she ordered him to keep his distance: "I smell licker on yer close."

"Excuse me—I didn't—no—I hed—spilled eny—of hit." Jack seated himself on the grass, unheeding the jibes of the little boys and girls. He was a good natured tippler. In fact, he seemed pleased that his condition was furnishing fun for the crowd.

No blare of trumpet or beat of drum announced the coming of the death-defying gladiators; no eloquent orator was there to describe their deeds. Unheralded, unannounced, without applause or acclamation Alfred and Bindley emerged from their dressing room, Baldwin's barn. Crossing the narrow alley, climbing the fence they stood under the shade of the trapeze tree, the open-mouthed, craned neck cynosure of all eyes, excepting Jack Beckley's—he had gone to sleep.

The silence that greeted the duo was broken only by sotto voce remarks of Lin, taking a mental inventory of Alfred, or rather, his costume. He was attired in a red waist trimmed with beads, white tights, long, bright green, silk stockings tied with broad yellow ribbon garters, a big, double bow knot on the outside of each limb; a bright red nubia or neck comforter wound about his middle; no pumps, shoes or other covering on his feet.

The Aerialist's Debut

The silence that greeted the appearance of Alfred was broken. Jack Beckley lying on the ground too listless and drunk to raise his eyes higher than Alfred's green stockings, noticed the great expanse of feet in them, seemingly larger by the spread of the loose stockings. He remarked to those near him: "Thar's a heap uf thet one doubled down on the groun'."

Lin spoke as if to herself: "Well, I'll be tee-to-tully durned. Ef thet harum scarum devul hain't got my nit drawurs on fur tites, an' they fit him like sassage guts that's too big fur the fillin'. An', an'," Lin craned her neck towards Alfred, "an', an', by jiggurs, ef he ain't a wearin' Mary's (the mother's) green silk stockin's she used tu dance an' frolik in when she was a gal; an' Aunt Lib's worked, beaded Jenny Lind waist; an' Lizzie's new red nubby woun' roun' his shad belly. Ef he ain't stole the yaller ribbon offen Sal Whitmire's weddin' bonnit, I'm blind. Well, jus' wate, jus wate. Ef thar ain't a nuther circus to home tonite it'll be bekase his daddy ain't well."

Alfred and Bindley bowed low, right and left, kissing their hands to the audience, then saluting the trapeze in turn. (This pantomime introduction they had copied from Mathews and Hunting, noted trapezists in those days.) However, the same salutes have been employed by all aerialists these many years, therefore Alfred and Bindley should not be charged with stealing the business of others.

Preparatory to ascending to the trapeze Alfred unwound the nubia from his waist, casting it on the ground. Lin grabbed it up with a look that seemed to say: "Thank Gawd, I'll get that anyhow."

Trapeze performers usually ascend to their rigging on a net webbing, hand over hand sailor fashion. Alfred and Bindley, after their bows and salutes, climbed up the trunk of the tree to the limb on which their trapeze was suspended. Coon like, they crawled out on the limb and lowered themselves to the trapeze.

They kissed their hands to the uplifted faces below. At an agreed signal they bent backward, beginning with the feats performed by all trapezists. After every trick the aerialists would come up smiling, seated on the lower bar, side by side. Turning themselves upside down—which is the clearest explanation that can be written—they hooked their feet over the short bar in the small swing above and hung motionless head downward with folded arms.

As they thus clung one of the yellow ribbons or garters on Alfred's limb became loosened. The long ribbon fluttered in the air, furling and unfurling it gracefully descended.

Lin reached up her hands to catch it, muttering through her set teeth: "I wonder ef he'll shed the rest uf his borryed plumes. I wish he wud. Stretchin' an' crawlin' about he'll bust 'em sure." And Lin looked at Alfred's limbs with an anxious expression: "Ef he does you kan't sew 'em an' I ain't got no yarn thet'll match tu darn 'em."

The last feat was the hanging head downward by Bindley, clasping Alfred by the ankles. Hen Ragor, with the aid of a rope cast over the lower bar, pulled the performers, backwards and forwards. When the proper momentum was gained Alfred released his hand hold on the bar. Henry was to hold the bar away from the swing of the human pendulum until Alfred clapped his hands. He was then supposed to slacken the rope in his hands permitting the bar to swing within the grasp of Alfred.

This was the rehearsed procedure to carry the thrilling feat to the proper climax. Henry swung the trapeze too forcibly, one end of the rope slipped out of his hands and pulled loose from the trapeze bar. The lower bar fouled in the branches of the tree.

Alfred was clapping his hands violently for the trapeze. Henry was endeavoring to cast the rope over the bar, his efforts resulting in failure after failure. Finally in his excitement he endeavored to cast the rope up to Alfred. The pendulum had nearly stopped swinging, and Alfred was waving his arms, clapping his hands and begging piteously for the big trapeze swing.

Bindley above was holding on to the boy below. He implored Alfred to climb up to him. Effort after effort was made by Alfred to do so, but he hung limp and helpless. He could not command sufficient strength to pull his body up. He clutched at Lin's unmentionables as he hung head downward. The earth seemed a long way from him and things on it upside down.

The boys below were yelling in their excitement, the girls had covered their faces, the grown folks, who had stood afar, rushed to the scene.

Never will Alfred forget the few moments he was suspended thus, nor will he fail to remember to his dying day the first message he received from the man above. There was a splash, an incipient shower of warmish liquid falling on Alfred's upturned chin. Alfred wiped it off with his hand; fearing it was blood he scanned it closely. He was greatly relieved when he discovered that it was tobacco juice. (Bindley always chewed when acting).

Following the juice came this message: "I can't hold you all day, come up here or I'll come down there."

Alfred made frantic grabs, clutches and wiggles to climb up, only to fall back, more helpless. Hen was making an effort to throw the rope to Alfred. Lin grabbed him. Snatching the rope from him, she shouted: "Clim' the tree, clim' the tree, loose the swing, ye dam fool." Hen had started up the tree. A flood of hot juice rained down on Alfred's upturned chin, flowing into his mouth.

Bindley, with clinched teeth, muttered: "If you get killed it's your own fault, I can't hold you any longer."

Alfred could see old Mrs. Wagner at an upstairs window waving a book at Kenney Shoup urging to the rescue. He could hear voices as if in the distance. He felt a lowering of his body. He felt himself rushing through space. He made an effort to look up, and then all was blank.

He had a numb feeling in his whole body. "Stan' back, stan' back, gin him air, wash thet tobakker juice off his face, hit luks like blud," were the first words he caught. His eyes were wide open.

"Pour water on his head; Lor' don't pour hit down his bosum, you'll ruin Lib's worked waist. Open the gate an' we'll carry him hum an' fetch a doctur, ef thar's no bones broke he may be hurt innerdly."

Alfred raised himself up. He looked up into the faces about him. "Where's Bindley?" were the first words he uttered.

"Oh, I'm all right," Alfred assured him, "we'll do it all right tomorrow, won't we Bindley?"

Bindley nodded his head, doubtfully. Alfred attempted to walk but would have fallen had not helping hands been stretched out, easing him down until he rested on all fours. He commanded all to release him: "Let me alone, I'm all right. Come on home with me, Bindley." Painfully, slowly he started, crawling toward the opened gate, over the spot where he had collected the ammunition that disbanded the torch-light parade; nor did he turn aside for anything. Not unlike a four-footed animal he made his way to the middle of the street. He attempted to arise. Again weakness, or pain, bore him down. Hands that were willing to assist him before he crawled through the cow pasture, were now held aloof.

Lin, as she saw him fall in the dust, said: "Well, ef he ain't a sight on airth. Kum on James Todd, help him hum; an' you boys strip him while I heat a kittle uf water, till we git him so the doctur kin handle him."

Alfred staggered to his feet again, Bindley and Charley Brashear supporting him on either side. Thus, the limping procession slowly moved homeward, the young ones and a few grown-up ones bringing up the rear. These latter were re-telling the story of the accident for the twentieth time, usually concluding with: "Bindley is a fool; he had further to fall than Alfred; he didn't have to fall, he could have just flopped Alfred over and turned him so he would have lit on his feet and let him go. No, dam if he didn't hold on 'til he petered out and down they both come like two bags of salt. Alfred hit full length, it's a wonder it hadn't busted him. Bindley lit sort of half standing, but he got right up and limped a little and it was all over with him, but tother one was knocked colder than a wedge."

Alfred had been feverish, hot. The great amount of water poured over him to revive him had run down his body, and the many pads in the maiden Aunt's garment absorbed the water. Alfred complained of feeling cold.

Someone whispered behind him: "That's a bad sign. When that Jones boy got throwed off a horse, nobody thought he wus hurt much but he turned cold just afore he died."

Aaron Todd stood at his gate with a cynical smile spreading over the small expanse of face not hidden by whiskers. He viewed the plight of the boy with evident pleasure. As Alfred, with the assistance of his companions, entered the gate leading to his home, Todd elevated his nose, and turning about as though to enter his house, sneeringly muttered: "Dad-burn him; he got a dose of his own medicine. Ho, ho, ho; chickens comes home to roost, don't they?"

Lin led the way, as she commanded. "Kum on in through the kitchen, it won't du fur ye tu track over the front room carpet."

With bowed head, leaning on his companions, Alfred limped to the kitchen door. Bindley and Charley disrobed him. Placing a big, tin vessel in the middle of the kitchen floor, they soused Alfred into it.

There was not a bath room, private or public, in Brownsville in those days. Wash tubs were used in winter, the creek and river in summer. Once there came an oldish, high-toned lady from Richmond. She lodged with Isaac Vance at the Marshall House. He bought a new carpet and other fine furnishings for her room. It was an unusually warm summer. One day Vance noticed the colored porter carrying a tub to the lady's room: "Yer, yer, where yer goin' with thet tub?" demanded the proprietor of the hotel. "I'se jes carryin' it up tu Mrs. So and So's room," answered the colored man. "What's she goin' to do with thet tub this hot weather" inquired the landlord. "I reckon she's gwine to wash herself; she sed she's gwine to take a bath, I ges dat's washin' herself." "Huh!" snorted Vance, "not in this house in this weather. Ef it wus winter I wouldn't mind it, but I won't have her floppin' aroun' up thar like a dam ole goose, splashin' water all over thet new carpet. Take thet tub back to the cellar, an' you go up an' tell her ef she needs a wash to go to the crik like I do."

Alfred was put to bed. The doctor, after careful examination, declared no bones were broken, there were bad bruises and might be internal injuries. However, it would require several days to fully determine, meanwhile the patient must be kept very quiet.

Lin advised the doctor: "He lit mos' settin'; ef he'd hed a littul further tu fall he'd lit flat on his settin' down attitudes."

A bottle of liniment was ordered, and Alfred rubbed often with the preparation. John Barnhardt and Cousin Charley volunteered to sit up with Alfred the first night. Alfred regained his good humor, laughed and jested over the termination of the trapeze act until all agreed he was in no danger whatever. "Why, he's jes carryin' on same es he allus does; hit nevur fazed him," Lin assured the mother.

However, when the doctor called the following morning and Lin confidentially advised him that the boy was all right and he needn't lay abed another minute, the doctor dissented, insisting that the patient remain quiet, at least another twenty-four hours.

Jim Mann agreed to sit up the next night. The father requested Jim to get someone to sit up with him for company. It was getting late, Lin was dozing, Alfred urging her to go to bed. There was a knock on the door; both felt sure it was Jim. Lin opened the door; there stood Jack Beckley and in about the same condition as the day before.

Lin hesitated to admit him. Jack explained that Jim had invited him to sit up with Alfred. He said: "Jim and Dave Adams had a quarrel and Jim threw a pot of white paint on Adams, covering him from head to foot. Jim don't know whether he will be arrested or not; he does not want to be arrested and locked up at night when he can't give bail, so he sent me to look after Alfred."

Lin, when Jack's attention was elsewhere, whispered to Alfred: "Don't close a eye tunite, sleep tumorrer; ye can't tell what a whusky drinkin' man'll du, thar's no dependence in 'em."

Jack was a most attentive nurse, in the early hours of the night at least. He hovered over the bed at the slightest move of the patient. He insisted on using the liniment almost constantly, declaring he would rub all the soreness out of Alfred's bruises before morning. Alfred, half asleep, remembered Jack saying something about looking for more liniment.

Jack left the house ere any of the family arose. Alfred was loud in his praise of Jack's kindness and declared him the best hand in the sick room he had ever seen. The mother was sorry he went off without breakfast. The father said he would hand him a piece of money when he met him.

Alfred insisted that he had entirely recovered; Jack had rubbed all the soreness out of his hurts and he would not lie longer in bed. The father and mother commanded he lie until the doctor assured them danger had passed. The doctor called, and Alfred assured him he was all well and wanted to get up and go to work that very day. The doctor said: "Well, you ought to know how you feel. Have you any soreness in your joints or muscles?"

"No, sir; Jack Beckley rubbed all the soreness out of me last night."

"Turn over, let me see if there is any evidence of bruises." The doctor seemed deeply interested. Alfred could not see his face but he seemed to be critically examining him. He would tap various places on the bruised part of Alfred's anatomy. "Does that hurt? Does that pain you?" would be the question after each tap, to which Alfred would invariably answer: "No, sir; no, sir."

After studying a few moments the doctor passed into another part of the house; he was evidently conferring with the mother. Returning he again took Alfred's temperature, examining the tongue even more carefully than previously. The doctor remarked, as if to himself: "It's curious. Did you sleep; have you no pain?" Again he turned Alfred over and gazed long at the parts of the body supposed to be bruised.

Alfred began to get interested: "What's the matter, Doc; have you found any bones broken?"

"No, no, nothing of that kind. But the bruises; have you no soreness."

Alfred assured him that he had not.

"I will be back in an hour," was the conclusion of the doctor's instructions to Lin.

When Lin entered the room Alfred's first anxious query was: "What's the matter with the doctor, he wants to make you sick whether you are or not. I'm going to get out of this bed this day; I'll not lay here any longer."

Here the mother entered cautioning Alfred to remain entirely quiet. "I'm going over to see grandmother; she is not well. I will bring your father home with me; the doctor will return by that time and we will know what to do for you."

Later Mrs. Wagner came, a good-natured, motherly, old German woman, a near neighbor. Among her neighbors, she was esteemed as one whose knowledge was invaluable in the sick room. She insisted upon examining Alfred's condition. Although he insisted he was all right the old lady was permitted to examine his bruises. She left the room, returning soon with a large, hot poultice, applying it. Alfred grew rapidly worse.

The doctor soon returned. At every pressure of his fingers he found a new sore spot. "Does that hurt?" "Yes, sir," would be the answer from Alfred. Warm teas were administered, cold towels were placed on his head, and hot poultices on other parts of his anatomy. Alfred feebly acknowledged he was feeling very badly.

The father and mother came and with them the grandmother. When alone, the father advised Alfred that his body was a solid mass of bruises, that the flesh had turned black and blue. Alfred heard Lin whisper something about "mortification hed set in an' the doctor feared blood pizen."

The family were at dinner—Alfred had been placed upon a diet of squab broth, none of the flesh, just the broth—Alfred quietly arose and, with the aid of the big looking glass, (mirrors had not been discovered as yet, in Brownsville), and a contortion feat such as he had never attempted previously, he scanned the bruised parts. Lin's worst fears seemed confirmed; all his person reflected in the looking glass was black as ink, as he expressed it.

Good Mrs. Wagner, with the doctor's permission, continued applying the hot poultices. Alfred's misery increased near night when the nurses advised him to calm himself as the bruised blood was rapidly disappearing. Alfred urged the good woman on by declaring the poultices were getting cold, although they had been applied but a moment or so.

Uncle Ned came to sit up. He greatly increased Alfred's nervousness by his attempts at consolation. He showed Alfred the error of his ways, assuring him he might have been killed outright and that his foolish ambitions to become an actor would probably lay him up for weeks, that it would cost his father a lot of money and possibly leave Alfred with his health impaired for a year to come.

Alfred, to get relief, implored the uncle to bring in more poultices. He kept the good uncle so busy his lecture was greatly interrupted.

In answer to the doctor's first question: "How do you feel this morning?" Alfred replied: "Very weak; I had no sleep last night."

The doctor examined the patient carefully. "Does that hurt?" "No, sir," answered the sufferer. "Well, you're coming around all right; the blood is circulating and the bruises are much better, your flesh is assuming its natural color."

"Doctor, I think that liniment had something to do with my trouble, don't you? It nearly burned me up and the turpentine in it smelled so I could hardly stand it. I told Jack when he was rubbing me it felt like he was raising blisters."

The doctor interrupted the patient by hastily correcting him as to there being any turpentine in the liniment.

"I know there was, I've worked with turpentine too long not to know the smell of it," persisted Alfred.

Lin also declared the whole house smelled so of turpentine she was compelled to change the bed clothes. "Ye kan't tell what a man thet drinks licker like water mought take intu his hed to rub ontu a body. I wanted tu hist him when he fust kum, but no, Jim Mann sent him an' he mus' stay."

"Where's that bottle of liniment I sent here," demanded the doctor.

Lin opened the closet door and handed out two bottles. One of them contained a few drops of an amber colored fluid. "This is the lotion I prescribed," said the doctor, and he poured a few drops of the liquid in the hollow of his hand. Rubbing his hands briskly he held both palms over his nostrils. Sniffing it he drew his hands back, his eyes watering. "There's no turpentine in that mixture." He held his hands over Lin's nostrils and triumphantly asked if she could detect the odor of turpentine. Lin admitted that it had no scent of turpentine. The doctor held his hands over Alfred's face: "Where's your turpentine? You're a good judge of turpentine and you work in it every day and cannot detect the odor of it from alcohol, wintergreen and chloroform." The doctor laughed as he seldom laughed.

Calling the mother the doctor laughingly poked a great deal of fun at Lin: "I wouldn't want Alfred or Lin to buy turpentine for me." He kept the fun going by reminding Alfred that Jeffries (the father's competitor) was probably correct when he spread the report that the father used benzine in his paint instead of turpentine. This was a center shot at Alfred. The report had been circulated that his father used benzine to mix his paint with. During the war the price of turpentine was almost prohibitive and benzine was used by many painters. It was not a good substitute and it was a common thing for one contractor to injure another by circulating the report that his competitor used benzine.

Raising himself up in bed Alfred stoutly reiterated that it was turpentine he smelled in the liniment.

Lin said: "Durned ef ye kin fool me in the smell uf enything; my snoot nevur lies. I not only smelt hit but ye kud taste hit."

The mother added her observations to Alfred's and Lin's insisting the room smelled as strongly of turpentine as though it had just been painted. "I was compelled to open the windows," she said.

The doctor could not combat the new evidence, it was too direct. "Well, if there was turpentine rubbed on this boy, Jack Beckley brought it here. Have you any turpentine in the house he could have gotten at?"

The mother and Lin both declared there was not a drop of turpentine in the house.

The doctor left with orders to continue the poultices.

Bindley called with his coat pockets full of green apples. Emptying the unmatured fruit on the bed, he cautioned Alfred to eat salt on them and they wouldn't hurt him. Bindley was insulted when the green apples were thrown out by Lin, with the remark: "Huh! He's got enough pizen in his sistum without loadin' him up with worms."

The turpentine story was detailed to the father with the benzine reflection, and he was hot under the collar. He sent Bindley forthwith to locate Jack Beckley and bring him to the house: "But don't say one word to him about what we want him for."

The report had spread that Alfred was in a serious condition. Many were the callers and many the comments on the accident. Mrs. Todd said: "Well, I can't understand why it was that the Livingston boy, who was the higher up and fell the farthest, escaped injury, and Alfred was hurt so badly. They say Livingston could have saved himself the fall. They say he risked his life to save Alfred. I can't just understand how Alfred got hurt so badly; it seems like a visitation of Providence; you know Alfred has been so forward in his devilment with other folks."

Lin flared up as she answered: "An' I kan't fur the life uf me figger out how Bindley fell so much higher down then Alfurd an' didn't break his back. But judgin' by the terbakker juce he spilled on Alfurd afore he fell he mus' dropped his quid an' then fell on hit an' thet broke his fall."

There is no denying the fact that the accident made Bindley the hero and Alfred the goat. Peter Hunt said: "Bindley was prompted by that sense of duty one boy feels toward another. He held Alfred until he could hold no longer, and when strength gave out, he fell with Alfred. It was an act of heroism."

Peter said there were two bodies falling with equal velocity; if one had fallen on top of the other the concussion would not have been great.

Johnny Tunstall said of Alfred: "Huh! The munkey devil; ye kudn't kill him with a hax."

George Fee expressed his sorrow thusly: "It's a great pity they fell; I tole Susan so, for when they wus up in them swings they wus nearer Heavun un they'll ever git again."

Aaron Todd pushed his whiskers over the garden fence, inquiring of Lin as to Alfred's condition: "He's purty badly hurt I fear," he began, and, with a tone that betokened anything but sympathy: "Hurt internally I reckon. He'll hardly pull through ef he hes blood pizening; I never knowed anybody thet hed hit internally thet evur got up again."

"Oh, my!" and Lin pretended to be greatly surprised, "Oh, my, Alfurd's all right. Why he's up an' about. Ef you're goin' out on a torch-lite percession soon ye'll hear from him." Todd's face clouded, pulling his whiskers over the fence into his own yard, muttered: "The luck of sum peepul beats hell."

The doctor and Jack arrived. "What kind of liniment did you apply to Alfred's bruises?" sternly demanded the doctor.

"I dunno," quietly answered Jack, "your liniment I reckon."

"And Thar's the Very Bottle"

"Was there turpentine in the liniment you used?" continued the doctor, not regarding Jack's reply.

"Well I should say; hit nearly burnt my han' off, hit tuk all the skin off twixt the fingers; my han' wus jus' like when I hed the itch. I've been greasin' hit with hog's lard an' elder bark ever since," and Jack pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it up to the doctor's view.

The doctor bent over the hand; it was discolored with small blackish spots. "Where did you get the liniment; did you bring it with you?" more sternly demanded the doctor.

"No, sir, I didn't bring hit with me," somewhat impudently answered Jack, "I'm no hopathekary; I got the liniment right thar," pointing to the closet door, "an' thar's the very bottle," continued Jack as he opened the closet door.

Taking the large bottle off the shelf with both hands he passed it to the doctor who shook and uncorked it. As he was in the act of smelling it the father entered the room. Turning toward him the doctor, with his nose still at the neck of the bottle, inquired: "John, where did you get this stuff, this liniment?"

"Liniment?" the father repeated, as he reached for the bottle. "Liniment? Why, doc, that's not liniment. Who said it was? Why, I've been experimenting with that stuff nearly a year. That's not liniment, thet's walnut stain; I can stain anything to resemble walnut. We—"

The remainder of the father's recommendation was lost in the laugh. Alfred kicked the bedclothes over the headboard; the women-folks ran, the doctor did not remain to see Jack remove the mortification from Alfred's body.

When Jack had scrubbed, rinsed and dried the supposedly affected portion of Alfred's anatomy, he assured him the black and blue color had been supplanted by a redness of the skin that was remarkable. "Hit's es red es scarlet," was Jack's comparison.

"Well for Heavens' sake, Jack, keep it quiet or they'll be doctoring me for scarlet fever," cautioned Alfred.

As the doctor walked up the path toward the front gate Lin shouted after him: "Doctur, ye kin tell ole Jeffres thet John uses turpentine in his liniment ef he don't in his paints."

---

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN]

Thank God for the man who is cheerful,
In spite of life's troubles, I say;
Who sings of a brighter tomorrow
Because of the clouds today.

Then came a letter—whatever you may be, your parents were probably more so about the same age; but the world is wiser now than then, the boy world at least. The writer had heard of Alfred and his wonderful talents; he was organizing a minstrel show and would like to negotiate with him. The new organization would be one of the most complete in the country; it would be an honor to anyone to be connected with it. Benedict would head the company.

Duprez and Benedict's was one of the leading minstrel companies of the period. How was Alfred to know the Benedict who was to head the new show was not Lew Benedict?

Alfred engaged with the Great Benedict Minstrels. Rehearsals were called for 10 a. m. daily, but were generally called off until 3 p. m., by which time the principals were in such a jolly mood they did not require rehearsals; they felt funny enough to entertain royalty.

The manager, or more properly, the angel, for angel he was, seemed more desirous of making a reputation in bar rooms than with his show.

Alfred learned the minstrels were being organized to invade the oil regions where money grew on derricks. After subduing the oil territory the angel was supposed to become so favorably impressed with the possibilities of the enterprise, augmenting the company, he would treat the larger cities to a sight of the mighty monarch of the minstrel world.

Doctor McClintock and wife lived near Rouseville, Pa. Childless, they adopted a boy, John W. Steele. Prior to the discovery of coal oil, the worn out fields of that locality were valueless. Now broad acres were as valuable as the diamond fields of South Africa. Never in the wildest days of the gold excitement in California was money more rapidly accumulated or squandered than in the oil regions of Pennsylvania.

Johnny Steele fell heir to all the lands of Dr. McClintock. Wealth rolled in upon him; he entered upon a career of extravagance. He spent thousands of dollars daily, he literally cast money to the winds. His notoriety spread to the furthermost limits of the country; the daily papers, the weeklies, the monthlies printed exaggerated accounts of his profligacy.

Skiff and Gaylord's Minstrels crossed the path of "Coal Oil Johnny," as Steele had been dubbed. Lew Gaylord made a great ado over the spendthrift. Steele accompanied the minstrels for a few days; their pathway was one wide streak of hilarity. When hotel men complained of the boisterous behavior of Steele the coal oil spendthrift bought the hotel for their stay.

"Coal Oil Johnny" was the sensation of the day. He bought the minstrel boys hats, coats, shoes, trunks and that most coveted minstrel decoration, a diamond.

The minstrels flourished for a few months. The public rebuked the unenviable notoriety of "Coal Oil Johnny." The minstrels steadily declined. "Coal Oil Johnny" went down with them. His money gone, he was made treasurer of the troupe his prodigality had ruined. When the ending came there was none so poor as he. Hotels where he had spent thousands, refused him even a night's lodging. He went back to the farm; the acres he had cultivated were covered with oil derricks; the friends he knew had departed; he was almost a stranger save for the notoriety he had acquired. Unabashed he seemed to take a pride in the spendthrift race he had run. He drove a baggage wagon; afterwards he became the baggage master at the depot in Rouseville.

---

There never was a full rehearsal of the minstrels ere they embarked for Parker's Landing on the good boat "Jim Rees." There was no railroad to the oil regions from Pittsburgh in those days. The Allegheny River was navigable to Venango, opposite the present Oil City.

Two members of the minstrels, song and dance men, took a dislike to Alfred. Others soon became intimate with him, they enjoyed his humorous narratives, particularly his experiences with Node Beckley and the panorama. The two members mentioned exhausted the new boy's patience and he invited both to fistic combat. His challenges were laughed at; the jibes and jokes became more and more insulting.

Jealousy, that canker that eats and festers at the hearts of actors as it does at those of no other humans, was the motive for their actions.

Alfred had introduced a bit of acrobatic comedy in the closing farce that was the laughing hit of the minstrels. Owing to the lack of acts, the stage manager ordered Alfred to put on a single turn. This act preceded the turn of the song and dance men. The singing of Alfred took with the oil men greatly. The two who followed were not even fair singers, their efforts fell flat; they had the stage manager change them on the bill. The change put them just before Alfred. When advised of the change he reminded the stage manager that he went on only for accommodation in the olio and flatly refused to follow the song and dance men. The angel ordered the two song and dance men on in their usual position, following Alfred. Alfred rehearsed a dance secretly. He finished his singing turn with this dance, introducing all his known acrobatic stunts. This rough dance simply set the oil men wild and the two worthies fell flatter at every performance.

No philanthropist of the "Coal Oil Johnny" sort had discovered the minstrels as yet, but the path of their travels was one of nightly carousals. The two dancers were assisting the manager-angel in scattering the money that came in. The people were hungry for amusements; hence the tour thus far had been one of profit.

The manager and his companions never went to bed when there was another place to go. It was one of the pass-times of the two dancers to enter Alfred's room noiselessly, pull him violently out of bed and steal out in the darkness. In one of their playful moods they carried Alfred's wearing apparel to another part of the hotel.

Alfred warned the stage manager that he intended to resent this treatment. However, there was no cessation to the indignities the two put upon the young minstrel.

But like all so-called ladders, they could not stand the gaff. After a particularly keen onslaught upon Alfred with their tongues, in which several of his weaknesses were commented upon, Alfred got back at them: "I don't have to cater to the manager to hold my job; I'm drawing my wages on my work, not on my cheek," was Alfred's retort.

---

At Titusville, a banquet was tendered the minstrels by the landlord of the hotel.

Many speeches were delivered, good, bad and very bad—all predicting the perpetual success of the minstrel enterprise. There was a lull in the gaiety. The toastmaster announced as there was no prepared program all would be expected to say something. He thereupon introduced one of Alfred's tormentors.

The fellow arose, cleared his throat and made a laborious attempt to speak a few intelligible words, concluding with an indelicate story. The landlord tiptoed across the room closing the door that none might overhear. With a maudlin leer he followed the landlord with his eyes, as he shouted: "Thanks, Landy, this ain't a ladies' story." As he sat down there was neither laughter nor applause.

The toastmaster called upon Alfred. He was overcome with bashfulness and did not arise until several urged him to say something. "Get up, get up," urged the two men opposite. Alfred arose, so confused he could not articulate. A voice shouted: "Tell them about the panorama."

Alfred began Palmer's lecture. It had no application to the occasion, but few understood it, there was an oppressive silence. Alfred had no idea of when to cease talking, and would probably have given the whole lecture, had not Bill Young, a musician, one who took a very great interest in him, seized him by the arm, shaking him forcibly: "Here, here; you forgot the song, you promised to sing for us." Bill continued: "Gentlemen: Alfred will now give you a correct imitation of an old maid singing 'Barbara Allen.'"

He gave the imitation so cleverly that the guests applauded again and again. As he ended the song, his eyes closed, imitating the old maid, something soft and mushy struck him on the breast of his white shirt. The juice spattered into his face and over those near him.

A glance at the mushy mess, Alfred's eyes fell on the two men opposite him. One was looking apologetically at the gentleman next Alfred who was wiping his face with his napkin; the other laughing tantalizingly.

Retaliation was speedy. It was not two seconds after the decayed tomato landed on Alfred until a large platter of soft salad of some sort, a sugar bowl and several smaller dishes were landing just where aimed.

One of Alfred's tormentors lay upon the floor, his face and vest literally covered with salad and other cold lunch. The other was making for the door, dodging plates and cups that flew perilously near his head.

Alfred, being the swifter, soon overtook the fleeing man. There was a short struggle, and Alfred's well directed blows took all the fight out of him; he begged for mercy.

The landlord led Alfred to the parlor, commanding him to keep quiet and not cause further disturbance.

Alfred remained in the parlor for what seemed to him a long time. Finally, the landlord returned to advise the man struck with the salad plate was pretty badly cut and they thought best to get a doctor. He further stated the other one had complained to the police.

"The coward," sneered the landlord, "I wish we had let you give it to him; he would have had something to complain of. However, the chief is a good friend of mine and I think I can fix it so you will not be locked up."

Alfred's first thought was, what will the folks at home say should he be thrown into jail?

The chief of police and members of the company and others crowded into the parlor. The chief, one of those officials who felt his importance greatly, assumed to try the case then and there.

"Have you had any fights before?"

"Yes, sir, thousands of them," answered Alfred. He was under the impression the question covered his entire life. Everybody in the room laughed.

"No, I had reference to a fight with the parties whom you assaulted here tonight," continued the officer.

Alfred was just a little ashamed of the admission and entered into an explanation: "I never tried to fight them before, though they have done everything they could to worry me. Ever since I joined the show it has been one insult after another. I could scarcely keep my hands off them only I was afeared they would double team on me. I'd had it out long ago but for that," and as Alfred talked he warmed up.

"Hold on," the chief interrupted, "do not incriminate yourself. Did either of these men ever offer you violence?"

"No, they was afraid to, they're both cowards. I will fight it out with either of them right now." Alfred was angry; the old Brownsville way of settling such disputes was all he thought of.

The chief remarked to those near him: "I feel sorry for this boy, owing to the fact that they have tormented him;" he turned to Alfred, "I do not feel sorry for them nor wish to protect them, yet that is no legal excuse for your assault upon them."

Someone came forward with this proposition, that inasmuch as they all belonged to one family, that they shake hands all around, call everything square and go on about their business.

"Well, if the party will withdraw the charge of felonious assault it's all right with me. I don't get nothing out of it nohow," was the police officer's reply.

"Get them together," was the suggestion made by several. Alfred interfered by saying: "I'm willing to get together or do anything that's fair but I'm not going to travel with this gang of rowdies another day."

The chief nudged him to cease and whispered: "Then they'll put you in jail."

"Well, I'll put them in jail, too," retorted Alfred.

"What charges will you prefer against them; you stated you had never had trouble with them before?"

"But look what they have done to me," persisted Alfred. "They have plagued me until I couldn't have a minute's peace of mind, and then they hit me with a rotten tomattus as big as a gourd, why—?"

The chief here interrupted Alfred to inform him that in law a rotten tomato was not considered a dangerous weapon.

"Well, if anybody would hit you with a rotten tomattus, I know what you'd do; you'd shoot 'em, that's what you'd do."

"Why, there was no tomattuses on the table; I can prove it by the landlord."

"Them fellers went to the slop barrel and fished it out; didn't I smell old sour swill on it. Why the smell of that tomattus would made a dog sick."

Whether it was Alfred's anger, emphasized by his smacking his hands together, his hurried speech, or the description of the condition of the tomato, the laughter that convulsed all seemed to make him more indignant.

With heightened voice and more forcible gestures he continued: "If I do live in a little town, I've been away from home before, and I won't let no son-of-a-gun ride over me even if he is as big as the side of a house. I've got a home; I've got good people; I can go to them and I won't travel another day with a pack of drunken rowdies. You can do with me as you please. You say there's no law agin heavin' rotten tomattuses at a person in a banquet. What kind of law have you got in Titusville? If anybody would hit another with a tomattus at the dinner table in Brownsville they'd beat hell out of him quicker'n you could say 'Jack Robinson.'"

The remainder of Alfred's forcible, if not eloquent, speech was drowned by laughter. Half a dozen present volunteered to go his bail.

Numerous attempts were made in the early Sunday morning to influence Alfred to continue his travels with the troupe. To all arguments he gave the same answer: "No; I'll not travel further with a lot of drunken rowdies."

With all sorts of promises, a raise of salary, promotion, and other alluring inducements, they failed to move Alfred. Finally as do all cajolers, the manager endeavored to threaten the boy into following his wishes. But with no better results.

"I would walk home before I would travel another day with you," was the parting shot as the manager left the room, swearing he would have Alfred in jail and keep him there.

The injured man swore out a warrant for Alfred. Captain Ham came forward promptly and signed the bail bond.

The Captain was to open a summer garden or park a few days later. As Alfred had no previous acquaintance with the gentleman, he has often thought the deep interest evinced by the genial Captain was influenced by the two weeks' engagement offered and accepted by Alfred to appear in the park.

In so far as the writer's knowledge goes, this summer park in Titusville was the first of it's kind in this country. Titusville is renowned. Rockefeller's career began there. Titusville was the birthplace of the summer park and the Standard Oil Company.

The minstrels left Titusville with diminished forces; four remained behind. After a few nights more of feverish hilarity the company disbanded without money or friends.

Thus early in life the fact was impressed upon Alfred that the drunkard is an annoyance to sociability; without judgment, without civility, the drunkard is an object to be avoided in every walk of life. The drunkard is a detriment in business; a disgrace to his friends; the shame and sorrow of his wife and children. He is shunned by even those who profit by his excesses.

At a banquet in Chicago last year Alfred was confused by someone shouting: "Al, tell them about your panorama experience; there won't be any tomatoes thrown."

He could not get his mind off the interruption. As the guests were departing a gentleman passed his card; the name was not familiar. Alfred was passing on when the gentleman said: "Al, don't you remember me? We attended a banquet thirty-nine years ago. You were served with tomatoes; I got a dose of salad or some such stuff. I didn't mind the salad but the plate kind of jarred me."

Here he pushed back a lock of red hair streaked with gray, exhibiting a small scar high up on the temple. Alfred recognized him. To relieve the situation Alfred inquired as to the whereabouts of Dick, the other song and dance man. "Oh, he is, or was, working in a saw-mill in Williamsport. I haven't seen him in thirty years. Al, I didn't throw that tomato. Come over to the store, I want to talk to you."

---

Fort Duquesne, afterward Pittsburgh, was builded at the confluence of the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers where they form the Ohio, called by the villagers the "Point"—a natural site for a beautiful village such as Fort Duquesne was at the time we write of. It was indeed a sight on which the eye might gaze enraptured, with ever changing beauties to charm it. The high hills on every side cast their shades over the peaceful village for, notwithstanding the prefix "Fort", there was no semblance of soldiery, cannon or war, about the peaceful place.

The hills of smiling green rising abruptly in places, gently at others, towering above the rivers, seemed to look down upon the village and its peoples. The hills crowned with lofty trees and climbing vines, the trees swaying in the breezes seemed to be bowing approval at the tranquil scene below.

The locust, the sumac, the oak, the walnut, the dogwood, the haw, the red berries, glowing in the eyes of the boys of the village, and as impelling to them as the red lights that later glowed on the Anheuser Busch plants in the city that supplanted the village of Fort Duquesne.

Brownsville was one long symphony of content and happiness. The prosperity of its people excited the envy of those of Fort Duquesne. It was argued by the discontented of Fort Duquesne that the changing of the name of "Red Stone Old Fort" to Brownsville was that which brought Brownsville renown and riches.

Therefore, certain ones of Fort Duquesne called a public meeting to be held at the "Point" where the matter of changing the name of Fort Duquesne was discussed. Those who had emigrated from Washington County insisted the name should be Brownstown, hoping thereby to profit from the confusion that would arise as between that name and Brownsville. They argued that when the traders from Shousetown, Sewickley and Smith's Ferry, came up the river to barter they would be confused by the similarity of the names and ascend the river no further, thus the trade of Brownsville would be diverted.

Others argued that the name be changed to "Three Rivers;" still others insisted if change there must be, it be to Fort Pitt. Others wanted a burg made out of the old Fort. There was a compromise and the name "Pittsburgh" adopted. Immediately there was an influx of settlers, particularly from Somerset and Butler Counties. The town profited greatly by the change of names; there were many who could neither spell nor pronounce "Duquesne;" but now that it was made easier to explain where you lived, the town thrived.

Pittsburgh, with an "h", became noted. In Fort Duquesne the people had been content to live as they began; but the interlopers from Braddocks Field, Greene County, and Holidaysburg changed conditions. The luxuriant cabbage gardens gave way to boiler yards; the little brick houses were supplanted by glass houses, still houses and other manufacturing establishments, the mark of that van of commercial greatness that has made Pittsburgh famous.

That part of the town formerly given over to agricultural pursuits, namely the river banks, was now paved with cobble stones and termed "wharves," thus providing a vantageous place for the citizens to congregate when they had a boat race over the lower course. Occasionally a raft from Salamanca would be moored on the Allegheny wharf and shingles unloaded in piles for the children to play ketch around in the twilight.

On the Monongahela side where the boats came from and departed for Brownsville, there was always more activity.

Many of Fort Duquesne's best citizens seceded. The volunteer firemen remained faithful to the old Fort. They went into business on Smithfield Street and are known to this day as the Duquesne Fire Company. It was through those who seceded that the outlying boroughs of Birmingham, Brownstown, and Ormsby, were created on the south side, while those on the north-west side christened their settlement "Allegheny," thus destroying its future. As the river of that name that runs away from itself when it rains and drys up when it is clear, is so uncertain, the name Allegheny does not appeal to the masses. Had Allegheny taken the name of "Pittsburgh," the courthouse and all other public buildings would be located on the north side, a natural site for a populous city. As it is, Pittsburghers are compelled to live in Irwin, Latrobe, Cassopolis and Kittanning, to make room for their public buildings.

In the early days of the "Smoky City," for such had become its nickname, the residents were wont to sit for hours and gaze at the sun and sky; this pleasure is denied residents in modern Pittsburgh. The only knowledge they have that there are sun, moon and stars, is that which Professor John Brashears (from Brownsville) supplies with his astronomical instruments. Hurrah for Brownsville!

In those good old days there was no caste or class. On a Saturday afternoon the entire populace would gather at Scotch Hill Market and on Fifth Avenue at night.

Andy Carnegie knew every man who worked for him by his first name and could be seen daily at the Bull's Head Tavern where the men always stopped to open their pay envelopes.

The leaders of society were consistent. There were two balls each winter and one picnic in summer. City Hall and Glenwood Grove were the scenes of those gayeties.

Harry Alden, Mayor Blackmore, Chris Ihmsen, Tom Hughes, Major Maltby, N. P. Sawyer, John O'Brien, Jimmy Hammill, Harry Williams, Major Bunnell, John W. Pittock, Bill Ramsey and Dan O'Neil were the social, political and business leaders of Pittsburgh in those days. No social function, no political scheme, no public celebration from a wedding to a boat race was successful without their active co-operation.

Ben Trimble, Harry Williams, Matt Canning and Major Bunnell controlled all the theatres. Jake Fedder was the toll-taker at the Smithfield Street bridge, a position second in importance only to that of mayor.

Those were happy days for Pittsburgh. Everybody had a skiff and fishing was good anywhere. The suckers were all salmon in the river and you did not have to go to lock number one to catch white or yellow perch. A twine line could be bought at any grocery store. Sporting goods emporiums had not taken over the fish hook industry.

Happy would Pittsburgh have been could it always have existed as in those golden days. But communities, like humans, grow out of their simplicity, encouraged or subdued by the successes or failures of life.

Alfred was in Pittsburgh again among friends whom he loved. Johnny Hart had graduated from second cook on the tow boat Red Fox to stock comedian at Trimble's Variety Theater. Harry Williams was the stage manager. There was a place made for Alfred on almost every bill.

The Levantine Brothers, Fred Proctor, of Keith & Proctor, Harrigan & Hart, Delehanty & Hengler, Joe Murphy, Johnson & Powers, and all the famous artists of that time appeared at this house.

Alfred impersonated a wide range of characters while in this theatre. Harry Williams, the stage manager, was an ideal "Mose" in the play of that name. (It was the Saturday night bill for weeks.) Alfred made a big hit as the newsboy, sharing honors with the star. He added new business to the part weekly and was retained several weeks for the one performance on Saturday night.

Alfred was engaged by Matt Canning, the manager of the Pittsburgh Opera House. In those days all first class theatres employed a stock company; the stars traveled alone, or at least with only a stage manager. The manuscript of their plays, the scene and property plots were sent in advance. The company studied their parts until the arrival of the star when a grand rehearsal was gone through with. This was a strenuous day's work, particularly if the star was a stickler.

Booth, Barrett, McCullough, Edwin Adams, Joe Jefferson, Jane Coombs and many other noted stars appeared at the Pittsburgh Opera House and Alfred had the honor of supporting all of them, by assisting in moving bureaus, dressing cases, center tables, cooking stoves, bedsteads, bar fixtures and other properties required in the plays, up and down stairs. However, parts, and minor roles, were entrusted to Alfred. If the stock system had continued it would be greatly to the advantage of the dramatic stage of today. It made the actor, it proved the actor. He remained in the ranks alone on his ability, impersonating many characters in one season. His art broadened.

Actors do not compare with those of the olden days. This is true. We may have a few actors as able as any that ever lived but the dramatic profession in general has deteriorated since the combination system superceded the stock company.

The stage has advanced in the authorship of plays and their production, not in their rendition. The actors of today are not the students or workers as were those of the earlier days, neither have they the opportunities.

Alfred was entrusted with many roles not congenial to him; in those he generally failed. In a society drama, appearing in evening dress, a turn-down collar, a large red and white flowing tie, a huge minstrel watch chain attached to his vest, he was reprimanded by Jane Coombs, the star, in the presence of the company.

Another time he led a Roman mob costumed as a Quaker. John McCullough laughed over this afterwards, but at the time, what he said cannot be printed. When Joseph Jefferson appeared as Rip Van Winkle, in addition to impersonating one of the villagers, Alfred was entrusted with the task of securing children to take part in the play. The stage manager advised the bashful children to make merry with Rip; that he was very fond of children and would enjoy their familiarity. Whether it was the shaggy beard or the assumed intoxication of Rip, a child refused to clamber up on Rip's back. The stage was waiting; that the scene should not be marred, seventeen year old Alfred attempted to perch himself on Rip's back. It was not the Jefferson of later days but the Jefferson of middle manhood. Alfred was dropped to the floor amid laughter that the scene never evoked previously. Instead of the great actor being peeved, he kindly inquired of Alfred if the fall had hurt him. As a matter of fact Alfred purposely made the fall awkward.

Dick Cannon had a number of young friends—Billy Conard, Clarke Winnett, Charley Smith, Billy Kane and Alfred. Dick had a large luxuriously furnished room in the hotel. One evening each week he set apart to entertain his young friends. To pass the time away Dick introduced a game he had played a few times while tending lock at Rice's Landing. It was a Greene County game, new to Fort Duquesne but universally popular in Pittsburgh since. The game was known as "Draw Poker" in Greene County.

After several lessons, in which Dick's courtesy and unusual interest in his young friends was evidenced at the end of every deal, as Dick raked in the pot with the air and manner of a learned professor of a college, he explained to each player who had lost—and his lecture always embraced the entire class, for when the pot justified it, they all lost—just how they should have played their hand to win. "It's just as important to learn how to lay 'em down as it is to play 'em up," was his advice.

Alfred had failed, notwithstanding Dick's teachings, to learn even the rudiments of the game, so he sought the dictionary. He had become convinced that a person to be proficient should, as Dick advised in one of his lectures, not only study the game but human nature as well. Therefore, Alfred decided to start right. He found the word "draw" signified "to drag, to entice, to delineate, to take out, to inhale, to extend." The word "poker" signified any frightful object, a "spook."

The Old Greene County Game

The echoes of Gideon's words were daily percolating through Alfred's gray matter: "Don't know enough to quit the game when you got velvet in front of you."

When questioned as to the cause of his absence from the weekly seance, Alfred replied that, as he understood it, the object of Dick was to teach and enlighten each in the class, and that he had thoroughly mastered the mysteries of the game and he felt it was imposing on Dick to take up his valuable time and devour his delicacies longer; Dick should get a new class. "I'm graduated," concluded Alfred.

---

Alfred's connection with the drama was both pleasant and profitable. The probabilities are that if a certain production had realized the hopes of its authors, he would have continued in the dramatic line. It was the beginning of that evolution of the stage that culminated in the ascendency, for a time, of the melodrama.

A serial story under the title of "From Ocean to Ocean," then running in Street & Smith's New York Weekly, was dramatized for J. Newton Gotthold and in so far as the writer is informed it was Bartley Campbell's first play. The play bore the title of "Through Fire." It was a stirring drama, and both actor and author had high hopes of its success.

J. K. Emmett, recruited from the minstrel ranks, had made himself immensely popular, and wealth was rolling in on him. His vehicle "Fritz" was a flimsy frame on which was hung Emmett's specialties.

Byron's phenomenal success in "Across the Continent" was achieved only through his artistic ability. It was argued that J. Newton Gotthold, a sterling actor, with a sterling play, was sure to attain success. Alfred was engaged for the spring trial of the play; also the following season.

The opening occurred in Youngstown, a western city, so looked upon by Pittsburghers in those days. After two nights in the west there would be a week or two weeks in Pittsburgh.

Alfred, in addition to doubling the character of a young snob, afterwards a quick gun-man, also led the Indians' attack on the wagon train.

A number of supes were employed in Youngstown, husky young rolling mill men of muscle and grit. Alfred, at the head of his Indian braves, attacked the wagon train of emigrants; instead of the supes falling back, as rehearsed, then charging forward, led by the star, they pitched into Alfred and his Indians at the first rush. Alfred to save the scene, fought valiantly to stem the tide of strength and sturdy determination. But the supe pale-faces were too muscular for the copper tinted braves whom Alfred led. In fact, at the first onslaught of the whites the Indians, with the exception of one or two, fled and left Alfred to battle alone.

Alfred was overpowered, completely vanquished—a blow between the eyes laid him low. The Youngstown supes not only wiped up the stage with him but they wiped their feet on him. The gallery howled, the down-stairs applauded, the company laughed. The curtain fell amid loud applause.

Alfred was anxious to continue the conflict after the curtain dropped; the supes were agreeable. But the stage manager, the stars and others of the company interfered. The matter was amicably adjusted.

Alfred, although badly maimed, played his parts during the week's run in Pittsburgh, although the war club he carried was not the imitation one he wielded in Youngstown. However, there was no recurrence of the Youngstown scene.

The play did not meet with success. After the Pittsburgh engagement it was carefully laid away and thus Alfred was preserved to minstrelsy.

It is a curious fact that the only play Bartley Campbell ever wrote, a play with the theme of which he was not in sympathy, written for commercial purposes only, has lived longer and earned more money than his most meritorious creations. We refer to "The White Slave." Who is not familiar with those thrilling lines:

"Rags are royal raiment
When worn for virtue's sake."

Bartley Campbell was a self made man—from laboring in a brick-yard to journalism, then a dramatist. He was a noble boy, a manly man. He toiled patiently all the days of his only too brief life for those he loved.

---

It was in the early days of the beginning of that race for wealth that has made Pittsburgh both famous and infamous. Jared M. Brush had been elected mayor; Hostetter Stomach Bitters had become famous in all dry sections of the country; Jimmy Hammill had won the single sculling championship of the world; the Red Lion Hotel had painted the lion out and painted St. Clair Hotel in gilt letters to attract trade from Sewickley, which community, so near the Economites, had imbibed a sort of religious fervor exhibited outwardly only. It was argued by the proprietor that when the residents of Sewickley drove by on their way to market to dispose of their garden truck, butter and eggs, they would be attracted by the word "Saint." The St. Nicholas Hotel on Grant Street always boarded the court jurors. The St. Charles on Wood Street had the patronage of the Democrats of Fayette County. Brownsville people always stopped at the Monongahela House.

The bleating sheep, the frolicking calves, the cackling hens, that had been heard on the verdant ridges of Pennsylvania Road, had been crowded to the rural district known later as East Liberty and Walls.

The log houses had given away to brick and frame dwellings owned by those who occupied them. Doctor Spencer had opened a dental emporium on Penn Street near the old ferry, then known as Hand Street, now Ninth.

Business was so good Joe Zimmerman had to paint his name upside down on his store front near the union depot. The fact that this cigar store was always crowded suggested the idea of another railroad for Pittsburgh. At first it was contemplated building the road along the south or west bank of the Monongahela, extending the road to, or beyond Brownsville.

Bill Brown then resided on Braddocks field, although he has repeatedly and earnestly protested to the writer that he was not at home when Braddock fell and did not hear of it for some time afterwards. Therefore, it is hoped those who are not acquainted with Bill will not connect him in any way with anything that happened to Braddock—the general, not the village.

When Bill learned of the projected railroad he interested a number of capitalists who owned coal land and town lots in Braddock. Hence, the new road was built on Bill's side of the river. First, it was completed to McKeesport. The opposition steamboat lines plying the river, (the boats being much fleeter than the railroad), controlled the passenger traffic.

When the projectors of the new railroad had this fact forced upon them they abandoned the plan of building the road further up the Monongahela than McKeesport. Surveying a route along the Youghiogheny River and thence to Connellsville they announced that they would eventually build to Uniontown and down Redstone Creek to Brownsville thus entering Brownsville by the back door, as it were.

However, this change of route did not work as the railroad people hoped for. The railroad carried a few passengers for Layton's Station, West Newton and several settlements between McKeesport and Connellsville. All travelers to McKeesport still patronized the boats, even those for West Newton and Layton Station traveled on the boats to McKeesport, and awaited the train to continue their journey.

The railroad people, dispirited and almost bankrupt, appealed to Brown and his friends who had held out such glowing inducements to them to build the road on their side of the river. An investigation of conditions was ordered and Bill, with his usual good luck and influence, appointed chairman of the investigating committee, with powers to expend whatever amount was necessary to the investigation.

Bill made one trip on the railroad to Connellsville. Thereafter, he spent the greater part of the beautiful autumn traveling up and down the Monongahela, even as far up the river as Geneva, although the scope of the investigation was to extend only as far as McKeesport.

The palatial side-wheel steamers were always crowded to the guards with travelers. Many slept on cots in the cabins but Bill had the bridal chamber. The mirrored bars employed a double shift of irrigators. They were never closed except when the boats were moored at Pittsburgh, and then Bill could always get in the back way. The food was bountiful; stewed chicken for breakfast, turkey for dinner, fried chicken for supper, and at night a poker game in the barber shop.

Again and again the railroad people requested a report from Bill but he was busy investigating as to why the steam cars were running with empty seats.

Finally notices were mailed to the railroad people, the superintendents who were also the section foremen, that the chairman of the committee was ready to report. They were requested to meet at Dimling's where Bill often assembled himself.

Bill's Report

Brown arose to read his elaborate report. He began by making a short explanatory speech mostly devoted to the immense amount of labor entailed upon him in the investigation. He thanked the railroad people for the confidence they had placed in him. He deplored his lack of ability and knowledge. In fact, in his talk he expressed such a contemptuous opinion of himself that those present (country folks), from Hazelwood and Port Perry were wrothy that they had entrusted Bill with the mission and money to complete the investigation. They were ignorant of the fact that the speech was one he had delivered to the members of another body yearly when elected to the office of treasurer.

Bill then read his report. It dealt with the crowned heads of Europe, the free traders of Pennsylvania, the populists of Kansas and Nebraska, the government of Ancient Greece and the wars of the Romans. Of course this had nothing to do with the subject under investigation but it served to rattle and confuse those to whom the report was read and impress them with the wide scope of the investigation.

The report referred in scathing terms to the unparalleled audacity of the officers of the rival lines of steamers, more particularly the new, or People's Line. That line had only two boats, the "Elector" and "Chieftain," while the mail line had the "Fayette," "Gallatin," "Franklin," "Jefferson," "Elisha Bennett," and other boats.

Bill, like everybody on the inside, felt that the mail line would soon absorb its rival and it was politic to be "in" with the stronger corporation.

The report demanded that the runners for the boats be restrained from soliciting passengers; that the steamboats be restrained from departing on the scheduled time of the railroads. Thus, if the West Newton and Layton Station passengers could not make connections at McKeesport, that is, if the trains arrived prior to the boats, travellers would be compelled to patronize the railroad.

He also compared the officers of the steamboat lines to the Gauls who devastated Rome, the vandals who had over-run the fairest plains of Europe. That part of the report ended with: "God forbid we live longer under these conditions."

Having thus artfully worked up the feelings of those present, Bill gazed over the assemblage with the air of a man who has gotten that which he went after, and continued to read:

"After diligent research, entailing much traveling, including many trips up and down the river at great expense including shoe-shining, your committee has succeeded in evolving a plan whereby the Pittsburgh and Connellsville Railroad may be able to control the passenger traffic on its lines. And it is to be hoped that all concerned will take the proper view of the matter and concur in the recommendations of the committee: First, that all trains on the Pittsburgh and Connellsville Railroad (excepting when otherwise so ordered), be and are hereby ordered equipped with an extra car, divided into three compartments, namely, dining room, bar-room, and another room."

The chairman explained that the words "excepting when otherwise so ordered" were inserted as a precautionary measure. "It might happen at times that two cars, of the kind the committee recommended, might be required."

After concluding his report the chairman carefully folded the paper, placing it in his hat. Casting his eyes over the meeting he silently waited for some one to say something to Dimling.

After the meeting adjourned, one man ventured to remark that Bill had gone about the investigation like a colt approaching a brass band, prancing and dancing, wrong end foremost.

Many were the written protests sent Bill. All these he ignored. He not only refused to reply to them, but to emphasize his contempt, used them for an unseemly purpose.

---

[CHAPTER NINETEEN]

Hang on! Cling on!
No matter what they say.
Push on! Work on!
Things will come your way.

"A person dunno till after they've fell intu a muddy ditch how meny roads they cud a took an' kept out uf hit. But after ye've fell in the mud a time ur tu an' then ye don't no enuf tu keep outen hit, ye ain't much; ye're only gettin' muddy an' not larnen eny sense, an' thar ain't much hope fur ye." This was Lin's answer to Alfred's declaration that he would never go out with another show unless it was first class.

If there ever lived a boy who has not experienced the feelings that must come to a rooster that has been in a hard battle and lost the greater part of his tail feathers, he is one who has never looked over his record and endeavored to rub out the punk spots. There are but few boys who have not an exaggerated ego, and it is well that they are so constituted, they will better battle with the rebuffs and the disappointments that youth always walks into.

If a boy is lacking in confidence—conceit is confidence increased in a boy; conceit is ignorance in a man. Conceit renders a man so cock-sure that he ignores advice.

The first thing for which a boy should be operated upon is an overdeveloped bump of self-conceit. The earlier in life this protuberance is punctured the more quickly he will become useful to himself and family. It often requires several operations to effect a cure.

Over-zealous friends are responsible to an extent for the failure of many promising young men. Many persons regard exaggerated praise necessary to the advancement of youth. A boy entering almost any profession or trade can be unfitted for his labors by fulsome flattering.

Alfred's best friends filled him with the false idea that he was a great actor, that he was being abused and thwarted. Had his friends been sincere, he could have side stepped many stiff punches that he walked straight into. Most fortunate is the boy who gets knocked through the ropes early in the bout of life; his youth will enable him to come back the stronger.

The King Solomon of showmen, P. T. Barnum, the father of fakes, originated the "Gift Show"—the giving of presents to all who purchased tickets of admission. Everybody received a prize. Several hundred of the prizes were of little value. There was one that was valuable: a gold watch and chain, a diamond pin or other article of jewelry, was generally the capital prize as it was designated.

People flocked to Barnum's museum to win the capital prize; Barnum reaped a harvest. Of course the idea of the "Gift Show" was immediately taken up by ignorant imitators who are always quick to appropriate the ideas of others. Numerous magicians were soon touring the country with their alluring advertisements promising presents far exceeding in value the receipts of the theaters in which they appeared, even though the prices of admission were doubled.

The circus concert adopted the "Gift Show" scheme, and when a circus side-show, or concert, adopts an innovation of this character, it is safe to wager that the yokel will "get his" good and plenty.

The "Gift Show" idea was worked so successfully that the numerous jewelry concerns that had sprung up in Maiden Lane and on the Bowery could not fill the orders for the brass ornaments required to supply the enterprises distributing them.

Everybody got a prize; there were no blanks. Alfred and another boy, George, did the distributing act. Stationed on either side of the stage, they received the tickets. Pretending to look at the number, they handed the prize out. Alfred had four packages of prizes; he was ordered to alternate. First a lady's breast pin, then a gent's collar button, then a stud, then a finger ring. The capital prize the boss awarded in person.

Since the days of Barnum's "Gift Show," no "sucker" has ever seen the capital prize except when the proprietor of the "Gift Show" was not looking.

The "Gift Show" man usually placed the capital prize in the show window of a prominent store. Everyone who bought a ticket hoped to capture the capital prize. The "Gift Show" always fixed the landlord of the hotel or some man about town to draw the capital prize, returning it to the "Gift Show" manager afterwards. It is amazing the many who were willing to play the part of capper in this game.

After a number of tickets were presented and not less than a peck of the cheap presents distributed, the capper would pass up his ticket, and the boss proclaim in a loud tone: "Four hundred and sixty-two wins the capital prize, a solid silver tea set." The plate was set out on a table covered with a black velvet cloth to brighten the appearance of the ware.

"If the gentleman prefers we will gladly pay him one hundred and seventy-five dollars in gold for his ticket." The money counted out to him in the presence of the gaping multitude whetted everybody's desire to win the capital prize. The following night the hall was crowded again.

"Gift Shows" always remained three nights in each place. The entertainment offered was a secondary consideration; hence Alfred was the star of the show. He had unlimited opportunities. The fact was, the only reason the manager gave an entertainment at all was to escape the lottery laws.

Alfred was on the stage half a dozen times and would have gone on again had he had anything more to offer. Alfred imagined the more often he appeared the more he was appreciated, until one night a sailor heaved an orange from the gallery, landing it on Alfred's head. The seeds flew all over the stage. Alfred did not regain his composure even when assured by others of the company that the seeds were not his brains.

A gentleman whom he had met while with Eli during their tour of Greene County—he was only an acquaintance of a day—called on Alfred. Alfred introduced him as his friend. Agreeable, intelligent and well dressed, he made an impression on the show people and without consulting Alfred, the "Gift Show" man fixed Alfred's friend to cop the capital prize which he did very successfully.

When the boss called: "Ticket three hundred and nine wins the capital prize," the rehearsed scene was gone through with, although Alfred's friend made the play doubly strong by hesitating in accepting the cash in lieu of the tea set. "I would prefer the silverware; I wish to preserve it in our family." After a little further parleying, he was handed one hundred and seventy-five dollars. He received congratulations, answered questions and smiled on everybody.

The night Alfred's friend won the capital prize the audience was larger and more intelligent than usual. One gentleman remarked, as he passed back to Alfred the present tendered him: "Boy, keep this for me until I call for it. Write my name on it; I don't want to lose it, I want to get it melted, we need a pair of candle sticks and brass is mighty high."

An old lady opened her envelope containing a pair of ear-rings. Handing them to Alfred she remarked: "I hope there's no mistake here, the ticket reads ear-rings, these are chandeliers."

The stool pigeon, after receiving the money for the capital prize, wandered leisurely out of the hall. He was supposed to be met by the fixer of the "Gift Show", to whom he was to return the money the boss had given him.

Alfred's friend played his part capitally. He sauntered out leisurely; he did not saunter out of the main door, or, if he did, the fixer failed to meet him. The hall was empty save for the two or three stragglers and the manager.

The fixer entered hurriedly, looking sharply around the almost vacant room, he whispered with the boss. They turned their glances toward Alfred. It was an illusion of the boss and his staff that others of the company were ignorant of the deception practiced in the awarding of the capital prize.

The boss called Alfred to his room and questioned him at length as to the gentleman he had introduced as his friend. Alfred stated when the Eli minstrels were touring Greene County the gentleman accompanied them several days. His companionship was so agreeable that Eli remained behind in Carmichaelstown a day or two.

The boss had learned the fellow was a short card player, and he swore he would not allow a cheap poker player to do him.

"Fix the olly! I gave him broads to the show! He's right as a guinea! Fix him! Have this cheap Greene County bilk pinched. I'll land him in the quay."

All of this, interpreted, meant that the boss wanted the winner of the capital prize arrested and thrown into jail. He did not dare proceed against him for holding out the money he had given him. To attempt to recover it by law would expose their nefarious practice.

There was hurrying to and fro and in hot haste but nothing as to the whereabouts of the gentleman could be learned. The constable searched all night, and the fixer remained with him as long as he could keep pace with the officer. Weary, blear-eyed, unsteady on his limbs, he finally lay down on a bench in the hotel sitting room and was awakened only by the breakfast bell.

Next morning he was very surly. He ordered Alfred in a very rude manner to remove two large boxes of jewelry from the hotel to the theatre and to remove the boxes as soon as he got through his breakfast: "and don't eat all day either."

Alfred did not eat all day; in fact he ate but little. He was choking with wrath over the insult the man had put upon him. Taking himself from the table he awaited the coming of the man. As he emerged from the dining room, Alfred halted him with: "I say, you ordered me to move some baggage from the hotel to the theatre. I just called upon you to tell you that you ain't my boss; you didn't hire me, you don't pay me; furthermore, I did not hire out to this troupe to peddle brass jewelry or handle baggage. You move the boxes yourself."

"Well, we'll see if you don't move them boxes, and I'll give you a smack in the jaw, you jay, you!"

Alfred remembered Titusville, and a greatly subdued manner, said: "If you're the boss, just hand me my money and I'll skedaddle double quick."

Later in the day the boss sent for Alfred to come to his room. As he entered, the boss said: "Well, you want your money, do you, eh?"

Alfred replied: "I couldn't very well stay here after what's passed between your manager and myself."

"That's so," smilingly assented the boss. Turning his back on Alfred and pretending to look over his books, he continued: "Where do you expect to meet your friend?"

"What friend," inquired Alfred.

"The smart young fellow you rung in on us yesterday. I'd thought you'd skipped without waiting for the few bones I hold of yours. You're too fly to work for a salary. Talk about sure-thing men, there ain't a strong arm game in the country can beat it; garroting is laid in the shade by your play."

Alfred could not understand the man at all. He was completely confused: "What do you mean? Has that man who tried to boss me this morning been telling you anything about me?"

The man wheeled around in his chair, facing Alfred. Pointing his finger at Alfred, in a voice choking with anger, he exclaimed: "You're not as slick as you imagine you are; you've been under cover ever since you came here. You made all my people think you were a straight guy; you played the role of a gilly kid to the queen's taste. But I'm on to you bigger than a house; after you've worked me for a hundred and seventy-five dollars, now you want to wolf me for twenty-five more. I won't shake down for one dime more. You think you'll get your bit of the touch but I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that guy will double cross you and it will serve you right for doing the man you were working for. You can leave; I can't hold you but you won't get a case from me. I'll stand pat on this proposition. Do you hear?"

Alfred understood the man, in some way, was endeavoring to connect him with the gentleman who won the capital prize.

"All I want is my money, the money you owe me and you'll pay me before I leave this town," was Alfred's declaration as he left the room.

A bluff always unsettles a scoundrel. Spaff Hyman, the magician of the troupe, was after Alfred in a moment. He explained that the boss and one or two others were under the impression that Alfred and the gentleman whom Alfred had introduced as his friend were in cahoots, that Alfred had brought the stranger there to do the gift showman out of the money and that Alfred stood in with the play.

Alfred was indignant. Spaff assured the boy that he had implicit confidence in his honesty. "I know that Greene County gang," continued Spaff, "Jim Kerr and Lias Flanagan had that old trotting horse sneak. This fellow that came on here was the brains of the gang; they skinned every sucker on the fair grounds where they entered this horse. He had this combination sized up; he came on here to trim the boss and he got away with the play. I know you had nothing to do with it, but if you leave now, those who suspect you will make others believe you are crooked. Hold down the job until you prove yourself right, then skip if you want to."

Alfred began an explanation: "I never met this man but once. I heard several people say he was a young man with no bad habits: 'He does not drink a drop of liquor, he don't smoke, chew tobacco, nor cuss.' That's what I heard in Carmichaelstown."

"Huh! Yes, he's a saint," sarcastically mused the old sleight of hand man, "he's a saint and that's what makes him successful as a con. Sam Weller advised his son to 'bevare of vidders,' I advise you to beware of saints. Since the days of the Bible when saints were inspired, there have been but few of them roving the earth. Latter day saints are material, hence, susceptible to all the temptations and frailties of this world. When you get acquainted with a man who boasts that he has no bad habits, look out for him, he will spring something on you that will outweigh all the minor defects that scar the character of the ordinary man. I do not say there are no good men, there are; but the man who pretends to go through this world on a record of no bad habits accumulates a heap of inward secretiveness. It keeps growing. He gets swelled up, and some day he breaks out and the enormity of his break surprises all. 'He had no bad habits,' that's what they all said. No, he had no bad habits that were apparent; he was a sneak. In order to conceal his little sins, he deceived himself and his friends. If he had been honest he would have gone through life like the average man. Go back in your mind and figure up the fellows that have fallen and see if the fellow with no bad habits isn't in the majority. Mind, I'm not figuring on the poor devil without education or advantages, the fellow who robs hen-roosts or steals dimes. I'm talking about the fellow who walks off with one hundred and seventy-five dollars, robs the banks or post-offices, the fellow who touches the widow and orphan."

"I can't understand you," ventured Alfred.

"Well, you can't understand the fellow who had no bad habits."

"But the boss is not playing fair with the public," protested Alfred.

"Well, who on earth ever did play fair with the public? I know you, with your ideas bounded by Fayette County's limitations, don't understand these things. There's men who would not take advantage of any man in a personal business transaction, who will get in on almost anything that will worst the public. The public is a cruel monster; the public condemned and crucified Christ; the public is behind every lynching. The public condemns and ostracizes a man, even though he has lived an upright life all his days, when some scalawag, for personal or financial reasons, assails him in a newspaper. When Commodore Vanderbilt gave utterance to the words, 'The public be damned,' he expressed the sentiment of four-fifths of those who have rubbed up against the public, as had the sturdy old man who acquired his estimate of human nature while rowing the public over the river. The public would ride across the river without paying him fare. The public will crowd into our show tonight without paying. The public will eat all the fruit that ripens, all the grain that grows, drink all the liquors malted and take anything they can get for nothing. I mean the public rabble, the mob, not the individual. The only time you can trust the public is when their sympathies are aroused over some great public calamity that brings death and desolation. Then the public is of one mind, the public then shows to best advantage."

"Well, you are the funniest man I ever heard talk. Now what are you going to do to make the public what you consider it should be?"

"Educate it; educate it. Three-fourths of the public are suckers, one-fourth skinners. Now, I don't mean to assert that one-fourth are dishonest men, but most of them are men a bit too fly for the others. You know there's not one man in a thousand that considers it cheating to give himself a bit the best of it. Now you argue that the public is ignorant and that the only way to get it right is to educate it. Well, the fellow who walked off with the boss's one hundred and seventy-five dollars is educated."

"How do you account for his dishonesty" inquired Alfred.

"I don't account for it."

It was arranged that Spaff go to the boss, patch up matters between him and Alfred. Spaff requested Alfred remain in the hall that he might be near. The door closed on Spaff. Alfred remained near it; he wished afterwards he had not. The transom was open and every word uttered in the room floated through it.

Spaff began: "Say, boss, I've been talking to that fresh young nigger singer, and, while he don't know much, it's my opinion he knows nothing of the guy who done you for the capital prize. He's purty handy around here and I thought you better keep him. I've got him going; I told him if he left now everybody would conclude he was in on the capital prize trick. So I think he'll stick."

"What the hell do I care whether he sticks or not? He may be straight but I doubt it. The only reason I want him to stay is that he will have trouble in finding the other guy; I'm certain they were to meet somewhere and split up the touch."

Spaff was heard to say: "No, I think you're wrong. I am sure this kid is not in on it. I know that fellow; he's slick, he's always been a sure thing man and he has been planning this touch for sometime. He simply used Alfred to get an introduction."

"Well, he's a good one. He did not want to draw the prize, he argued; all the best people in town knew him and it would be difficult to deceive them. Why, I thought he was a small town jay. He even cautioned me to have someone at the door to receive the money, he did not care to carry it about with him." After a pause he continued: "Well, about this boy; what shall I say to him? I don't think it's a good play to let him go; not now, at any rate. You say he's straight. Do you reckon he's on to the capital prize fake?"

"Well, I dunno," answered Spaff. "If he is, and he's dirty, he could queer us in all these towns; he's been through here with two or three Jim Crow minstrel shows; these rubes imagine he's some pumpkins. Why, I have to go out of the house every time he comes on. He's the rankest performer I ever saw; he can sing a little and that lets him out. Why don't you cut his act down one-half at least? Half of the audience, green as they are, wouldn't stay in the house if they were not waiting for their presents."

"He comes on ahead of you and hurts your act," the boss assured Spaff.

That gentleman said: "Well, we've got to give them something for their money and Alfred does pretty good; if he only had the stuff he would be all right."

The boss agreed to this. "Yes, if he had something new. Those gags he springs were told before the flood. Lord, if I had the gall of some people I'd be rich. When he came here into this room and wanted money for that stuff he's telling, I got up and opened the door and planted a kick on him and says: 'Now, leave, skip, git out of yere and don't let me see you around yere agin.'"

"Why, he never told me one word of this," and Spaff's voice evidenced his surprise. "What do you say about keeping him?" questioned Spaff.

"Oh, we've got to have someone, but watch him."

When Spaff came out of the room he found Alfred some distance from the door. "Now, I've had a hard time squaring this matter with the boss. Someone has got to him and he is sore on you, or was. I just told him you were all right and that I would be responsible for you and he said: 'Well, I'll let him stay on your account.'"

Alfred could not restrain his anger longer. Whirling around, facing Spaff, he said in tones neither low or slow: "You go back and tell that damn sneak that I don't want to stay with him. You tell him he is a liar if he says he ever kicked me. You tell him if he says I had anything to do with the disappearance of his capital prize money, he's another liar. You tell him I'll meet him outside the hotel and he'll take back everything he said to you."

Spaff began to look scared. "Why, how do you know what he said to me," he queried in a voice that showed his fear.

"I heard every word; the transom was open; I couldn't help it. I'm glad I did hear. I know where you all stand. I'm only a boy, but I'll clean up this capital prize swindle and I'm going after it tonight. 'Watch me,' that's what the boss ordered you to do."

Poor old Spaff was thoroughly frightened. He coaxed and pleaded with Alfred to drop the matter, take his pay and he would endeavor to have his wages raised. At the first opportunity he slipped away from Alfred, ran around the back way and up to the boss's room.

Alfred was seated at the supper table. The boss entered and, with a pleasant "good evening," seated himself opposite Alfred, and familiarly inquired: "What they got for supper? They set a fairly good table here but the waiters are slow."

Alfred sulkily ate in silence, never deigning to look at or answer the questions of the boss. That gentleman rattled on, first on one subject, then another. Finally, he carelessly asked Alfred the title of the new song he sang the night before. Never noticing the boy's rude behavior in not replying to him, he continued, dipping a half doughnut in his coffee: "I want you to tell that gag about Noah being the first man to run a boat show; I think it's the funniest thing I ever heard. Where did you get it? I always make it a point to be in the house when you tell that gag."

Alfred did not understand that all this was flattery; he imagined the boss was guying him. His face was hot, his voice trembled. Leaning over the table, he sneered: "So you come in every night to hear the jokes that came over in Noah's ark, do you? Well, you needn't come in tonight, you won't hear them. When you get through with your supper I want a settlement with you and if you think you can kick me, come out of this house and try it." He left the table and passed out.

Instead, Spaff came to him, handing him twenty-five dollars. "Now, see here, young fellow, you're too hot-headed, you'll never get along if you keep this up. This man appreciates your work; he told me so. Say, you didn't hear right. I was in the room, I didn't hear the things you did. Come on, now, I'll get you a raise of five dollars a week."

Alfred walked away from the man. His baggage had been conveyed to the hotel from the theatre and his preparations completed. He left the "Gift Show."

---

"I'll never take another chance with a fly-by-night troupe. If I can't get with the best I'll stay right here in this town. I'll paint hulls, houses or anything; I'll go back to the tan-yard; I'll go to the newspaper office; I'll do anything, I don't care what it is or how badly I hate to do it. I wouldn't be caught dead with another troupe like the last one I was with." So declared Alfred to Lin and Cousin Charley.

After Alfred was out of hearing, Cousin Charley, with a laugh, remarked he had "heard that story afore. It won't be a month till he's off agin with some kind of a show. He can't git with a good one; they wouldn't have him with a good show. (Cousin Charley had assured Alfred that very morning that he considered him the best actor he had ever seen). He'll be out with a fly-by-night troupe afore the next month. Alfred's a gone goslin'. He's got no trade an' he'll hev to scratch to make a livin'. I sort of pity Uncle John an' Aunt Mary, kase they think so much of the boy, an' it's a great pity for them. Uncle John ought to beat the foolishness out of him long ago. He never touches him, no matter what he does. Does he?"

Lin looked at Cousin Charley in a sort of pitying way as she asked: "How is hit thet all are agin Alfurd? Ye all like him, I no ye do, but durned ef ye evur lose a shot at him. No, his pap don't whup him eny more, he nevur did beat him tu hurt; hit wus sort of a habit tu take him intu the celler to skur him but hit nevur done him a mite uf good, he jus laffed an' made fun uf hit. Ye kin do more with reasonin' with Alfurd."

Cousin Charley agreed with Lin and declared that he always took Alfred's part. "I told his father Alfred would go off some day and then they'd all be dog-goned sorry they hadn't handled him different."

"Well, Alfurd's not goin' off eny more till he goes rite; he's gettin' more sot in his ways every day, he's mos' like a man."

Alfred's family were greatly elated that he had settled down. Staid old Brownsville was stirred from center to sandy hollow. Peter Hunt, philosopher and photographer, leased Krepp's Bottom for the announced purpose of converting it into a skating park or rink. Alfred was one of Peter's right hand men. The creeks and rivers had furnished ample fields for the skaters of Brownsville heretofore, but Peter felt the time had come when the society people of the town, who did not care to skate with the common herd, should have a more exclusive place in which to enjoy this wholesome recreation.

Therefore Krepp's Bottom was selected. The proposed park was the talk of the town. Dunlap's Creek flowed in a circle, skirting three sides of the bottom land. Levees three feet high were thrown up along the banks of the creek, a rope stretched along the west side. An opening in the levee admitted the water. Two feet of water covered the bottom. The weather turned cold, ice formed, the park was opened, and three-fourths of the public walked in free. Alfred felt that Spaff was about right in his estimate of the public.

The creek fell, the dry, clay land absorbed the water, the ice sunk and cracked in places. The waters of the creek flowed six feet below and the glory of the skating park was a memory of the past.

Later on a promoter endeavored to rent Jeffries Hall for a roller skating rink. George Washington Frazee, who learned of the man renting Jeffries' hall for a skating rink, said: "Huh! Another dam fool 'bout skeetin'. Jeffries Hall won't hold water, an' if it did hit wouldn't freeze hard enuff to bear."

For the winter the town went back to its time honored sport of sledding, "coasting" it is termed nowadays. Sleds of all kinds were seen on the hills and streets of the two towns. Even men engaged in the sport. The speed attained, especially on Scrabbletown Hill, was terrific. The big sleds, loaded with from four to eight persons, flew down the hills at the rate of a mile a minute. The sleds bore striking names, Alfred's the "West Wind." It was one of the speediest of the numerous fast ones.

Starting at the top of Town Hill, those on the Brownsville side would speed to the Iron Bridge, even across it into Bridgeport. Those sliding Scrabbletown Hill would often be sent, by the speed attained on this steep incline, across the Iron Bridge into Brownsville. Thus the coasters of the rival towns would at times, pass each other going in opposite directions.

Brownsville's Winter Sport

The older men would sit in the stores and watch the sliders. The shoe-shops of McKernan and Potts were the scenes of many heated arguments as to the fleetness of the different sleds.

An old gentleman who had recently moved to Brownsville from Uniontown, endeavored to impress the shoe-shop crowds with the superiority of the sleds of the Uniontown boys over those of Brownsville. He related that a Uniontown boy slid down Laurel Hill through Uniontown and would have slid on down the pike to Searight's only he was afraid he would 'skeer' somebody's horses.

Shuban Lee, ever loyal to Brownsville and her sleds, related how Alfred had loaned his sled to a show fellow he brought home with him from somewhere. "The show chap did not know much about sliding. Alfred's sled was a whirlwind when it got to goin'. The show feller hauled the sled to the top of Town Hill. He started down the hill. The sled run so fast it crossed the Iron Bridge up to the top of Scrabbletown Hill. Afore he cud git off she started back down the hill, across the Iron Bridge agin, up to the top of Town Hill an' back she started. Half the men in town run out an' tried to stop thet sled but hit wus so cold they couldn't do hit. She just kept on a-goin' down one hill an' up tother."

Here the Uniontown man, with a contemptuous snort, said: "I s'pose he just kept on slidin' till he froze to death?"

"No," Shuban answered, "he didn't freeze, he just kept on slidin' till they shot him to keep him from starvin' to death. An' I kin prove hit by ole man Smith an' if you won't believe him I kin show you the feller's grave."

---

[CHAPTER TWENTY]

This world would be tiresome, we'd all get the blues,
If all the folks in it held just the same views;
So do your work to the best of your skill,
Some people won't like it, but other folks will.

Jean Jacques Rousseau, a French-Swiss philosopher, nearing the end of his days complained that in all his life he never knew rest or content for the reason he had never known a home. His mother died giving him birth, his father was a shiftless dancing master. Rousseau claimed his misfortunes began with his birth and clung to him all his life. Rousseau was one of the few persons who have attained distinction without the aid of a home in youth. No matter how humble the home, it is the beginning of that education that brings out all the better nature of a human being.

The home is the God-appointed educator of the young. We have educational institutions, colleges, schools, but the real school where the lessons of life are indelibly impressed upon the mind is the home. We write and talk of the higher education. There is no higher education than that taught in a well regulated home presided over by God-fearing, man-loving parents whose lives are a sacrifice to create a future for their children. The parents, rather than the children, should be given credit for the successes of this life.

Alfred had separated himself from his home several times but never decided to leave it for any lengthy period; but now the time had arrived when it seemed to him the parting of the ways in his ambitious life was at hand.

On the dead walls, fences and old buildings, were pasted highly colored show bills announcing the coming of Thayer & Noyes Great American Circus. Alfred decided he would go hence as a member of the troupe.

The humdrum life of the old town had begun to wear on his energetic feelings. There were social pleasures sufficient to make the days and nights joyous, but Alfred was thinking beyond the days thereof.

The circus had come and gone. "I will take your address. If anything occurs that I can use you I will write. You can expect a letter from me soon." With these words Dr. Thayer crushed Alfred's hopes.

Alfred voted the show the best he had ever witnessed, but the concert, the after show that promised so much and gave so little, he condemned.

After writing several letters and destroying them, deciding they did not fulfill all requirements, the following letter was mailed:

Brownsville, Fayette Co., Pa.

Dr. James L. Thayer:

Respected Sir: I take my pen in hand to acquaint you with the effect your show had on our people. It is the opinion of all who take interest in actors and should know, that your show was better than George F. Bailey's and it was considered the best we ever had. Brownsville people are hard to please. They see so much it must be choice if it suits them. Your circus suited all. I have heard many actors declare Brownsville was the hardest town to please they ever tackled. An English sleight of hand man played Jeffries Hall three nights. He said they were a "bit thick." Alf Burnett, the humorist, compared Brownsville to slush ice. Bob Stickney was the best one in your show.

Now comes the news that I hate to tell (and this was the sole reason that prompted the letter). Your after-concert is a bad recommend for your real show. I reckon one thing that made it appear worse is we have a regular minstrel show on hand all the time. I'm at the head of it, and most of the people in town know our jokes and songs by heart and when your concert people told them they did not tell them right and our people noticed the mistakes, and of course you couldn't expect them to laugh at the jokes anyway.

Now you promised to write me. If you can do so, I can go to your show most any time providing you do not get too far away from Brownsville. Please send me where you're going to list. I am sure I can make a heap of improvement in your concert and I know you do not want people anywhere to call you an old fraud as they have done here.

Your most obedient servant,

Alfred Griffith Hatfield.

P. S. Please let me know what you can afford to pay a prime concert actor. Between times I can help out in the circus ring if you have clothes fit to do it in.

In due time this reply was received:

Fairmont, Va.

Mr. Hatfield:

Your letter duly received. You will find our advance route for the next ten days enclosed. You can join at any time it suits your convenience. Your salary will be based upon the value and extent of services you can render this company. After a trial, if your ability is not what you represented it to be, your engagement will be ended without prejudice to you or expense to this firm.

Respectfully yours,

Thayer and Noyes,
Per B. L.

P. S. Send your professional name and billing.

Alfred read and re-read the letter and immediately began making preparations to tempt fate once more. The preparations mostly consisted in surreptitiously secreting his wearing apparel in the old barn where Node had labored so long on his great inventions. It was Alfred's intention to leave home clandestinely. As usual with boys in his frame of mind he did not dare to trust himself to advise with anyone; like boys in general, he did not desire advice. Approval was that which he most craved.

Uniontown was decided upon as the place to join the circus. Alfred felt the leaving of home and family meant more to him than ever before. At times he was buoyed up by hopes of success. He would argue with himself thusly: I have promised to join the show. They need me; they will be expecting me. This is the opportunity I have been looking for.

Alfred spent all his spare time at home with his mother, sisters and brothers. His usual haunts in town were forgotten. Family and friends noted the change and wondered thereat. Lin was unstinted in her praise. Lin asserted from the wildest, he had become the tamest boy in Brownsville. "He'll eat out of your hand now," she assured Mrs. Todd.

Mr. Todd jerked out a "huh" as he advised them to keep their eyes on the "devil ketcher." "He's just sittin' the megs for another outbreak. He's compilin' some devilment, yer ken bet yer bottom dollar. He kan't fool me twice."

It was the day previous to Alfred's intended departure. He had been at home all day. He gave his sled to brother Joe. It was summer and the steel soles were greased to keep them from rusting. Lin would not permit Joe to haul it over the floor claiming it would grease everything it touched.

To brother Bill fell shinny clubs and bats, marbles and a kite. Sister Lizzie was the recipient of more than a quart of various colored beads taken from Aunt Lib's Jenny Lind waist. Ida Belle, the baby was remembered with a big Dutch doll that rolled its eyes, the mother with an ornamental sugar bowl and Lin with a pair of puff combs. A pair of skates and a bow and arrow were given to Cousin Charley.

The greater effort Alfred made to ease his mind, the more conscience stricken he became. Try as he would he could not force the gayety he feigned. He clung to the baby sister every moment he was in the house. Lin, in an adjoining room, heard him ask the child if she would miss her big "bruzzer" when he was gone. Entering the room she found Alfred in tears, the sympathetic child stroking his face. Alfred endeavored to swallow the lump in his throat but he only sobbed the more. It did him good as ashamed as he felt.

Lin looked him over suspiciously as she, in a voice as commanding as she would pitch it, said:

"Look here, ye can't bamboozle me another minnit. What's on yer mind? Spit it out afore it spills. Get it out of yer sistum and yer'll feel a hull lot better. Thar hain't a durned dud of yers in this house. Air yu fixin' to fly the coop? If ye air, don't go off like a thief afore daylight. Go away so you won't be ashamed to kum back. Kum on now, let's hear from you! I'll durn soon tell you whar to head in."

Alfred made a full and complete confession.

"So yer fixin' to run off and break the hearts of all at home, an' put a dent in your own. For a week ye been jumpin' to make yerself more dear to 'em afore ye hurt 'em. Yer hain't learnin' much with all yer schoolin'. When do the retreat begin?" banteringly demanded Lin.

"Tomorrow," feebly answered Alfred.

That night, the family were in the big room, mother sewing, the children playing about her. Lin, seated behind the mother, repeatedly signaled Alfred to begin his talk to the mother as per his promise. The boy looked another direction but Lin never took her eyes off his face. Her gaze became painful. Finally he began:

"Muz, do you think Pap would be mad if I was to go away while he is in Pittsburgh?"

The mother, without taking her eyes off her work, said: "I hope you're not going to Uncle Jake's again. You'll wear your welcome out, won't you?"

"No, I'm going away on business. I'm tired and sick of the way things are going with me. I see nothing ahead for me and I'm going to strike out for myself."

The mother put down her sewing and looked very seriously. Lin, from behind her, nodded vigorously for him to go on.

"Look at Dan Livingstone," Alfred continued; "he never had anything until he went off with Capt. Abrams. Now see where he is and I don't know how many boys have gone away and all have done well. All I need is to get out of this town and I know I can do something for myself."

"Does Capt. Abrams want to take you with him," anxiously inquired the mother.

"Oh, no, he never said a word to me about it, but I know I could go with him if I wanted to."

"Well, where do you think of going?" questioned the mother.

Alfred hesitated a second.

"Well, first I'm going to try it with a circus but I don't expect to stay long. I'm just going on trial."

Noting the look of worriment on the face of the mother he continued:

"I know I won't do. They almost tell me so in a letter and it's only to Uniontown, twelve miles away. I won't be gone long," and he caught the baby up, tossed it up, and pretended to be very jolly.

The matter was gone over and over with the mother who insisted that Alfred remain at home until the return of the father. If he could obtain his father's consent he could go.

Lin endeavored to assist the boy by remarking: "Well, if he's jes goin' for a trial, Uniontown is so close to hum, you could walk back if ye hain't fit fer the work." The mother protested to the last.

Alfred had been so very liberal in bestowing presents to ease his conscience that he had but forty-six cents in his purse when the leaving time came. He was acquainted with all the old stage drivers on the line. It was his intention to walk up Town Hill, rest under the big locust trees at the brow of the hill until the stage coach arrived, the horses walking slowly ascending the long hill, he would get up beside the driver or crawl in the boot on the rear of the stage coach.

He lolled on the grass as the stage approached. The driver was a stranger to him. He looked appealingly at the man but received no recognition. The heavy stage lumbered by. Alfred ran for the rear end of it. The boot was bulging out with trunks and valises; there was no room for Alfred. A broad strap that held the huge leather cover in place over the trunks dangled down within reach. Grasping it as the four horses struck a trot, Alfred was helped along at a lively gait. Through Sandy Hollow by the old Brubaker house, then a slow walk up the hill by Mart Claybaugh's blacksmith shop, through the toll gate, then into a trot on by the old school-house where his first minstrel show was given, on by all the familiar places.

Leaving Home

Heretofore when traveling the pike Alfred had a word and a smile for all as he knew every family along its sides. On this occasion he endeavored to conceal his identity. But once did the coach halt—at Searight's half way to Uniontown to water the horses and liquor the driver and passengers.

Old Logan, the hostler at Searight's crowed in imitation of a rooster, the passengers throwing him pennies. Alfred with cast down head walked on to the next hill. When the stage rolled by he again grasped the strap and kept pace with the coach until the outskirts of Uniontown were reached. A small colored boy directed him to the show grounds. Through the main street of the town Alfred trudged, carrying the large carpet sack formerly used with the Eli troupe as a property receptacle for Mrs. Story's china tea set.

Arriving at the circus grounds, the afternoon performance was over. Drawing near the tent he anxiously expected to find the show folks looking for him. He imagined they would all be expecting him.

The huge form of Dr. Thayer loomed up. Alfred hastened toward him. The Doctor was engaged in an earnest argument with a mechanic of the town over the charges for repairs on a wagon. Alfred walked up to the circus man. The Doctor did not even notice him. He followed the two men around the wagon as they argued, Alfred stationing himself directly in the big showman's path. Their eyes met several times, still no recognition came from the circus manager.

Alfred finally accosted the big man with a "Howdy, Mr. Thayer. I've come to work for you."

The showman's surprised look showed plainly he did not recognize Alfred.

"I'm the new boy to work in your concert."

Motioning with his arm he ordered Alfred to go back and Charley would attend to him. Without any idea who Charley was or what he was, Alfred started in the direction indicated by the jerk of the doctor's hand. Approaching the connection between the main tent and the dressing room tent, a man lying on the grass warned Alfred back. Even after he explained that he was searching for Charley, the man, without heeding the appeal, motioned the boy back. Walking around to the other side of the tent, he stealthily approached the opening and darted in. He was barely inside the tent when a big, burly fellow seized him roughly and hustled him through the opening, demanding why he was sneaking into the ladies' dressing room.

"Mr. Thayer hired me. He sent me here. He told me Charley would attend to me. I'm looking for Charley."

The man asked: "What Charley are you looking for?"

"I don't know. Mr. Thayer told me Charley would put me to work."

The man laughed and led the way into the tent as he cautioned the lad to use the name of Mr. Noyes instead of Charley.

Mr. Noyes was too busy to talk to him. Alfred's attention was divided between the performance and the novel scenes in the men's dressing tents; the latter were as interesting to him as the ring performance. The order and decorum pervading the organization was marked.

Charley Noyes, a most competent director of a circus performance, the deportment of his employes was nearly perfect. Even the property men were respectable and well behaved. The performance over, a heavy set man was packing a huge trunk with horse covers and other trappings. He had repeatedly requested the others to lend a hand. Alfred assisted the man with his work until completed. In the interim Alfred advised him why he was there. The man looked the boy over carefully saying: "Where are you going to pad?"

Alfred had no idea of the meaning of the word "pad." Afterwards, he learned that "pad" was slang for bed and sleep.

He answered correctly by chance, "I don't know."

"Well, you can get in with me. It's a two o'clock call. I'm going to spread a couple of blankets under the band chariot. I sleep better there than in a hotel."

The blankets spread, Alfred's carpet sack served as a pillow for him. They were about to crawl in when the other asked Alfred if he had been to "peck." "Not within the last week."

The man looked at him pityingly. There was a lunch stand nearby. The man, returning from it, handed Alfred a half of a fried chicken and an apple pie. Although Alfred insisted, the man would not eat any of it. He ordered Alfred to eat it all, remarking "You need it."

Alfred found himself the object of considerable sympathy the following day and not until someone asked him how it was he had been without food for a week did he learn that "peck" in show slang signified meals—eating.

Boy-like, he had worn his new Sunday shoes. His feet were feverish and sore. Even had Alfred not been footsore, the snoring of the other would have made sleep impossible to him. How long he lay awake he had no reckoning of. It seemed to him he had only closed his eyes when he felt a yank at the blankets and a rough voice ordering him to get up. It was the lot watchman.

The big band chariot was slowly ascending the foothills of the mountains. The east was ahead over the mountain. The curtain of night was being lifted by the first streak of gray dawn spreading over the sky. All were asleep in the wagon excepting the driver. Halting his team he began winding the long reins about the big brakes. He was about to climb down when Alfred inquired as to the trouble. The driver advised that the off leader's inside trace was loose and the lead bars dragging. Alfred advised the driver to sit still.

"I'll hook it up. How many links do you drop?" he asked as he pushed the horse into place. He was on the wagon in a jiffy. The driver was greatly taken with the boy. Further up the mountain at the big watering trough, Alfred assisted in watering and washing the horses' shoulders. It was only a day or two until Alfred was permitted to handle the reins over the team, a favor this celebrated old horseman had never conferred upon anyone previously.

Never will Alfred forget that journey up the mountains. Every turn of the wheels of the big chariot, as they ground the limestone under their weight until the flinty pebbles shed sparks, made him feel more lonely. In the dim gray of the early day the distance seemed greater than when softened by the light of the morning sun. He had often from afar viewed the mountains over which they were traveling. As they ascended, he gazed long and wistfully towards home, a home that lives in his memory today as clearly as on that morning in the long ago.

On the Band Wagon

When the crest of the ridge was reached and the descent on the other side began, looking backwards, he imagined the world between him and home. Right glad was he of the friendly advances of the old driver—they were friends.

Soon the band men began to awaken, taking out their instruments, arranging their clothing, and making preparation for the entrance into town. The baggage wagons had preceded the band and performer's wagons. There was but one animal van, Charley White's trained lions, the feature of the show.

The teams halted. The driver placed plumes in the head gear of the horses. The band men pulled on red coats and caps. As the horns tooted and the cymbals clashed they entered the town.

Alfred assisted the driver to unhitch his team. Mr. Noyes arrived, meanwhile. Alfred volunteered to take charge of his team. He drove the handsome horses to the barn and saw that they were fed and watered.

Mr. Noyes remarked: "You seem to be fond of horses. Have you handled them before?"

"All my life," proudly answered Alfred.

"Well, you ride with me tomorrow. It will be more pleasant than in the band wagon. I want you to go in the concert today."

He had no orchestrated music, but Phil Blumenschein, the bandmaster, was an old minstrel leader. The orchestra played over Alfred's stuff two or three times and played it better than it was ever played before. In those days an orchestra furnished the music for the entire circus performance.

There came a heavy rain. The attendance at the concert was very light insofar as the paid admissions were concerned but all connected with the circus were there to witness the debut of the new boy who had joined to strengthen the concert.

No opera house or theatre ever erected has the resonance, the perfect acoustics of a circus tent when the canvas is wet and the temperature within above 70 degrees. There was a chord from the orchestra. Alfred ran to the platform in the middle of the ring. (The gentleman who announced the concert assured the audience there would be a stage erected). This stage was a platform about ten feet square resting flat on the uneven earth. As Alfred stepped on it and began his song and dance, in which he did some very heavy falls, the platform rocked and reeled like a boat in a storm. Every slap of the big shoes on his well developed feet made a racket, the sound twofold increased by the acoustics of the damp tent. Alfred's voice sounded louder to himself than ever before, notwithstanding he worked his whole first number with his back to the audience. (In theatres the orchestra is always in a pit in front of the performers—in a circus concert the orchestra is behind the performer).

Alfred faced the orchestra; his back to the audience, his work made a hit, even more with the show folks than with the audience. Dick Durrant, the banjoist, taught Alfred the comedy of the familiar duet, "What's the matter Pompey?" This was in Alfred's line and the act became the comedy feature of the concert.

Salary day came on Sunday. The employes of the circus reported to the room of the manager, where their salary was counted out to them by the treasurer. When Alfred's turn came he was asked: "How much does your contract call for?"

"I have no contract. Here is the letter under which I joined," assured Alfred, passing the letter to the treasurer.

Glancing at it: "Yes, I wrote that letter but you'll have to see Mr. Thayer." As Alfred opened the door to depart he said, "You had best see Mr. Noyes."

"How much are you going to pay me, Mr. Thayer?"

"Well, let me see, ten dollars a week will be about right, won't it Charley?"

"Eh, no, pay him fifteen. He's worth it. He's the best boy I ever had around me," was Mr. Noyes' answer.

Charley Noyes paid Alfred the first salary he ever earned with a circus and it was so ordained that Alfred should pay the then famous circus manager the last salary he ever received, years after the day Charley Noyes declared Alfred the best boy he ever had around him. The once famous manager, broken in health and fortune, was seeking employment and it fell to Alfred's lot to secure him an engagement with a company of which Alfred was the manager. When the salary of the veteran was being discussed, Alfred's intervention secured him remuneration far in excess of that hoped for. Soon after this engagement ended, Mr. Noyes died very suddenly. The end came in a little city of Texas. It happened that the minstrel company, owned by the one time new boy of the circus, was in Waco. Letters on Mr. Noyes' person written by Alfred led the hotel people to telegraph the minstrel manager, who hastened to the city where his friend had died. Ere he arrived, the Masonic fraternity had performed the last sad rites. Mr. Noyes was the friend of Alfred when he needed friends and it was his intention to send all that was mortal of him to his old home. Telegrams were not answered and Charles Noyes sleeps in the little cemetery at Lampasas, Texas.

As the Thayer & Noyes Circus was one of the best, Alfred has always considered his engagement with that concern as the beginning of his professional career. Dr. James L. Thayer and his family were highly connected. Mr. Noyes married the sister of his partner's wife. The families did not agree and this led to a separation of the partners, disastrous to both. Chas. Noyes' Crescent City Circus, and Dr. James Thayer's Great American Circus never appealed to the people as did the old title, nor was either of the concerns as meritorious as the Thayer & Noyes concern. In the prosperous days of the show the proprietors and their wives were welcome guests in the homes of the best families in the cities visited. The writer remembers that in the city of Baltimore, the mayor, the city council and other high dignitaries attended the opening performance in a body.

The company was the cream of the circus world: S. P. Stickney, one of the most respectable and talented of old time circus men; Sam and Robert Stickney, sons; Emma Stickney, his daughter; Tom King and wife, Millie Turnour, Jimmy Reynolds, the clown whose salary of one hundred dollars a week had so excited the cupidity of Alfred; Woody Cook, who came from Cookstown, Fayette County, only a few miles from Brownsville, and who, like Alfred had left home to seek his fortune; James Kelly, champion leaper of the world; James Cook and wife, of the Cook family, were of the company.

All circus people in those days were apprenticed, all learned their business. One of the latter day hall room performers would have received short shrift in a company of those days, when every performer was an all-round athlete; in fact, in individual superiority, the circus actor of that day outclassed those of the present. The riders were very much superior as they had more competent instructors.

The only particular in which the circus performance has progressed is in the introduction of the thrillers—the big aerial acts, the mid-air feats. Combination acts are superior in the present circus and in this alone has there been improvement. The circus people of old bore the same relation to the public as does the legitimate actor today.

There was an aristocracy in the circus world of those days that could not be understood by the circus people of today. Some twelve families controlled the circus business in this country for years. They were people of wealth and affairs.

The Robinson family was one of the oldest and most famous of their times. The elder John Robinson left an estate valued in the millions. The numerous apprentices of this master of the circus were the most famous of all of their times. James Robinson who was the undisputed champion bare-back rider of the world, was an apprentice of "Old John" Robinson. Assuming the name of Robinson, he held a place in the circus field never attained by any other. He toured the world heralded as the champion, yet he would never permit himself to be announced as such. He earned two fortunes. Today at an age that leaves the greater number of men in their dotage, Mr. Robinson is healthy and active. He enjoys life as few old persons do. In the office of his friend, Dr. J. J. McClellan, he may be found almost any day, the center of a group of good fellows and none merrier than the once champion bare-back rider of the world.

The Stickneys were one of the greatest of the old time circus families. In the summer the family followed the red wagons and in the winter Mr. Stickney managed the American Theatre on Poydras Street, New Orleans. America's noted players all appeared in this theatre. Young Bob Stickney was born in this theatre. He made his first appearance on the stage as the child in Rolla, supporting Edwin Forrest. No more talented or graceful performer ever entered a circus ring than this same Robert Stickney. Only a few weeks ago the writer attended a performance of that improbable play, Polly at the Circus. The grace and dramatic actions of Mr. Stickney in the one brief moment in the scene where Polly rushes into the ring, were more effectively and dramatically portrayed than any climax in the play.

When Thayer & Noyes' Great American Circus exhibited in Baltimore a special quarter sheet bill was printed, the program of the performance. Al. G. Field was one of the names on the bill, in two colors. The agent mailed one of these bills to the show. It was not until the portly proprietor, Dr. Thayer, explained to Alfred that his name was entirely too long for a quarter sheet, and that if he, Alfred, desired to be billed, he must curtail the name. "I've just knocked your hat off," laughed the good natured showman. Alfred thought little of the matter. He only regarded the name as a nom-de-plume. Other bills were printed bearing the name of Al. G. Field; when nearing the end of the circus season the management of the Bidwell & McDonough's Black Crook Company applied to Thayer & Noyes for two or three lively young men to act as sprites, and goblins, Mr. Thayer recommended young Mr. Field as a capable person to impersonate the red gnome; this name went on the bills. Alfred never signed a letter or used the newly acquired name until years afterwards circumstances and conditions had fixed the show name upon him and it was absolutely imperative he adopt it. Therefore in 1881, by act of the legislature of Ohio and the Probate Court of Franklin County, Ohio, the name of Alfred Griffith Hatfield Field was legalized, abbreviated on all advertising matter to Al. G. Field. It is so copyrighted in the title of the Al. G. Field Greater Minstrels with the Librarian of Congress.

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[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE]

We all fall down at times,
Though we have nerve and grit;
You're worth a bet, but don't forget—
To lay down means to quit.

"Columbus, Ohio, is a long ways out west and I don't hope tu ever git tu see you all agin but I hope you won't fergit me, kase I'll never fergit you. I'd go with you all but I'm 'bliged tu keep my promise. I hope my married life will turn out all right but you kan't never guess whar you're goin' tu land when yu sail on the sea of matermony.

"They say the reason men don't practis what they preach is bekase they need the money. Well, if he practices what he preaches, he'll be a good pervider and that's all I'll ask of him.

"I hope John will do better when you git settled in Columbus an' I know he will. Alfred's mos' a man grown an' he'll be a big help to his pap if ye'll jes' take him right. I jes' told John day afore yisterday—I ses, ses I—'Alfurd's no child enny more and you ought not tu treat him like a boy.' I want you all to write me and tell me how yu like it. I s'pose when yu git out in Ohio you'll all git the ager. Uncle Wilse's folks did and they shook thar teeth loose. They moved to Tuscarrarus County. Newcomerstown was thar post office. They wrote us they wanted to kum back home afore they was there a month.

"It's bad fur ole peepul to change their hums. Hits all right fur young folks kase they're not settled an' they soon fergit the old love fur the new, but I hope you'll like hit. John says the railroads kum into Columbus from both ways an' the cars are comin' an' goin' all the time. If you live close tu the depot you won't sleep much kase you hain't used tu hit."

Lin's fears were not realized. Alfred's home was far from the depot. It was in the South End, in fact, the South End was Columbus in those days.

Those who guided the destinies of railroads were as wise in those days as these of the present. The site of Coony Born's father's brewery was selected as the most desirable location for a passenger depot. The good people of Columbus (the South End) were more jealous of their rights than the people of today when a railroad is supposed to be encroaching upon them; therefore when it was proposed to locate a depot where the noise would disturb their slumbers and their setting hens, the opposition of not the few, but many, was aroused. To locate the depot in their midst was an invasion of their rights. Not only would it disturb the quietude of their homes but it would be a menace to their business inasmuch as it would attract undesirable strangers. The business men of the South End had their regular customers and did not care to take chances with strangers. They admitted a depot was a necessity—a sort of nuisance—to be tolerated, but not approved.

Railroad people of those days were as inconsistent as those of today. They were spiteful. They built a depot outside the city limits, as near the line of demarcation as possible.

North Public Lane, now Naghten Street, was the north city limits. The South End had won. They celebrated their victory over the railroads by a public demonstration. Hessenauer's Garden was crowded. The principal speaker, in eloquent Low Dutch, congratulated the citizens on the preservation of their rights—and slumbers. He highly complimented them over the fact that they had forced the railroads to locate their depot as far from the South End as the law and the city limits would permit.

The new depot was connected with the city by a cinder path, nor could the city compel the builders of the new depot to lay a sidewalk. The depot people claimed the land thereunder would revert to the city. Therefore, in the rainy seasons incoming travelers carried such quantities of the cinder walk on their feet that the sidewalks of High Street appeared to strangers in mourning for the sad mistake of those who platted the town in confining the city forever to one street.

Every incoming locomotive deposited its ashes on the cinder path. The city could not remove the ashes as rapidly as they accumulated. The task was abandoned and to this day no continuous efforts are made to keep the streets of Columbus clean. Like the good fraus of the South End cleaning house, the streets are cleaned once a year—near election time.

There was no population north of Naghten Street until after the erection of the depot. It is true there were a few North of Ireland folks living in the old Todd Barracks, and many of their descendants to this day can be found on Neil Avenue; yet they had no political power at that time; in fact the South End people, with that supreme indifference which characterizes those who have possession by right of inheritance, did not even note the invasion of the city by the Yankees and Puritans from Worthington and Westerville. It was not until Pat Egan was elected coroner that the residents of the South End realized a candidate of theirs could be laid out by a foreigner.

It was in those days that Alfred was introduced to Columbus. They were the good old days, when all thrifty people made their kraut on All Hallowe'en and the celebration of Schiller's birthday was only overshadowed by that of Washington's; when the first woods were away out in the country and quail shooting good anywhere this side of Alum Creek. The State Fair grounds (Franklin Park) were in the city.

The State House, the Court House, Born's Brewery, the City Hall, and Hessenauer's Garden, all in the South End, were all the public improvements the city could boast of. Others were not desired.

Those days only live in the memory of the good people who enjoyed them—the good old days when every lawn in the South End was a social center on Sundays; where every tree shaded a happy, contented gathering whose songs of the Fatherland were in harmony with the laws of the land, touching a responsive chord in the breasts of those who not only enjoyed the benefits and blessings of the best and most liberal government on earth, but appreciated them.

The statesmen of those days, the men who made laws and upheld them, chosen as rulers by a majority of their fellow citizens, were respected by all. It was not necessary for an official to stand guard between the rabble and the administration. Office holders stood upon the dignity of their offices. Demagogues had not instilled in the minds of the ignorant that to be governed was to be oppressed. Those unfitted by nature and education to administer public affairs did not aspire to do so nor to embarrass those who were competent.

In the good old days of Columbus, in the days of "Rise Up" William Allen, Allen W. Thurman, Sunset Cox and others, that fact that has been recognized in republic, kingdom and empire, namely: That that government is least popular that is most open to public access and interference.

The office holders of those days were strong and self-reliant. They formulated and promulgated their policies. They had faith in themselves. The voters had faith in them and faith is as necessary in politics as in religion.

The glories of the South End began to wane. South End people in the simplicity of their minds felt they were entitled to their customs, liberties and enjoyments.

Sober and law abiding, they only asked to be permitted to live in their own way as they had always lived. But the interlopers objected. The Yankees interfered in private and public affairs, legislation was distorted, and still more aggravating, the descendants of the Puritans demanded that at all public celebrations pumpkin pie and sweet cider be substituted for lager beer, head and limburger cheese.

A German lends dignity to any business or calling he may engage in. Honest and industrious, he succeeds in his undertakings. In the old days all that was required to establish a paying business in the South End was a keg of beer, a picture of Prince Bismarck and a urinal. Patronized by his neighbors, his place was always quiet and orderly. But little whiskey was consumed, hence there was but little drunkenness.

When William Wall invited George Schoedinger into John Corrodi's, George called for beer. Wall, with a shrug of his shoulders to evidence his disgust, said: "Oh, shucks! Beer! Beer! Take whiskey, mon, beer's too damn bulky." As there was no prohibition territory in those days there was no bottled beer. Whether keg beer was too bulky or not relished, brewery wagons seldom invaded the sections wherein the interlopers dwelt. The grocery wagons of George Wheeler and Wm. Taylor were often in evidence. Both of these groceries in the North End did a thriving jug and bottle trade. The Germans bought and imbibed their beer openly. The grocery wagons were a cloak to the secretiveness of those whom they served, therefore those who patronized the grocery wagons were greatly grieved and rudely shocked at the sight of the beer wagons and the knowledge that their fellow citizens drank beer in their homes or on their lawns.

This became an issue in politics and religion. Many went to church seeking consolation and were forced to listen to political speeches. Preachers forgot their calling; instead of preaching love, they advocated hatred. The German saloon, being lowly and harmless, must go. In their stead came the mirrored bar with its greater influence for the spread of intemperance but clothed with more respectability outwardly. Public officials were embarrassed, cajoled and threatened. The malcontent, the meddler, the demagogue, had injected their baneful innovations into the political life of Columbus.

It is related the Indians would not live as the Puritan fathers desired they should. They would not accept the dogmas and beliefs of the whites. At Thanksgiving time, a period of fasting and prayer, the Puritan fathers held a business meeting and these resolutions were adopted:

First, resolved, that the earth and the fullness thereof belong to God.

Second, that God gave the earth to his chosen people.

Third, that we are those.

They then adjourned, went out and slew every redskin in sight. Politically, the same fate was meted out to the peaceful citizens of the South End. The sceptre had passed from the hands of the sturdy old burghers of the South End. In their stead came a crop of office holders who, striving for personal popularity, catering to the meddler and busybody—a class who had no business of their own, but ever ready to attend to that of others. From a willing-to-be governed and peaceful city, discontent and confusion came. Every tinker, tailor or candle stick maker, every busybody in the city took it upon themselves, although without training, ability or experience, to advise how the city should be governed.

In the new order of things, representatives were elected noted only for their talking talents, the consequence of which was that every official considered that he was entitled to talk and talk on every subject whether he understood it or not.

There was a custom among the warriors of Rome that when one fell in battle, each soldier in his command cast a shovelful of earth on the corpse. Thus a mighty mound was formed.

And so it was in the new order of things in Columbus. When a question of moment came, every official endeavored to shower his eloquence upon it until it was buried under a mass of words. The busybodies who so greatly interfered with public matters were from the grocery wagon sections and were addicted to chewing cloves. Those from the West Side chewed tobacco. All ate peanuts. Special appropriations were requested by John Ward, city hall janitor, to remove the peanut hulls after each talk fest. And thus it was that peanut politics and peanut politicians came to be known in Columbus. Peanut politics like all infections, spread until the whole political system became affected. If the depot had been located in the South End there would be no North End today.

Do you remember the North End before the depot was located there? Do you remember Wesley Chapel on the site of the present Wesley and Nicholas block. Worship was never disturbed by the hum of business. In the North End in those days there was Tom Marshall's Red Bird Saloon, Jack Moore's barber shop, and that old frame building, Hickory Alley and High Street, No. 180, a floor space of twenty-five by forty feet. They turned out one hundred and fifty buggies a year. Later, as the Columbus Buggy Company, a buggy every eight minutes was the output. That was the beginning of the largest concern of its kind in the world.

The Columbus Buggy Company and Doctor Hartman, the foremost citizen of Columbus, have done more to bring fame and business to Columbus than all other concerns combined. Their advertising matter, the most expensive ever used, is distributed to all parts of the world; hence, the man abroad hailing from Columbus is not compelled to carry a map to verify his statement that Columbus is on it.

The Columbus of that day had more street railways than the Columbus of today. In fact, every man that had a pull had a street of his own. Columbus has more streets than any city in the world, comparatively. It is true some of them are not as long as the names they bear, yet they are on the town plat. Probably it was this ambition to own a street that influenced others to own street railways. We always spoke of "Old Man" Miller owning the two-horse High Street line. Luther Donaldson owned the one-horse line on State Street. Doctor Hawkes owned the one-horse line on West Broad Street. Doctor Hawkes owned several stage lines diverging from Columbus. He was the most serious of men. Alfred was in his employ. His duties called him to towns on the various stage routes. Hunting was good anywhere in those days. Alfred was provided with a rickety buggy and a spavined horse. He provided himself with a shot gun and a dog.

The First Home of The Columbus Buggy Co.

Returning from Mt. Sterling one raw autumn day, the game had been plentiful. The old Doctor met Alfred near where the Hawkes Hospital (now Mt. Carmel) stands. The Doctor driving a nettled horse, hurriedly advised Alfred that business of importance demanded he return to Washington C. H. There was a fine bag of game under the seat in the buggy, also a double barreled shot gun and a hunting suit. How to explain their presence to the Doctor was perplexing, although he had not neglected the business entrusted to him; in fact, he was an hour ahead of the time. Alfred feared the Doctor would be displeased.

The Doctor, quickly alighting, ordered Alfred into his rig.

"Doctor, I have a bunch of quail under the seat. Just let me get my gun out and you can have the quail if you want them; if not, send them out to father's." The old Doctor knitted his brow but said nothing. However, the quail were sent to the father's house.

Another day, starting on a trip to the country, the Doctor standing on the steps of the office, looked at Alfred and asked if he had forgotten anything.

"No, sir, nothing. I have everything I usually take with me."

"Where's your gun?" asked the Doctor.

"Out home," replied Alfred. "Now Doctor, I have done a little hunting but I always start early and I never neglect your business."

The Doctor muttered something about hunting being a frivolous sport and it should not be engaged in on your employer's time.

He never permitted anyone to waste time. The Hawkes' farm, embracing all the land on the West Side near where the Mt. Carmel Hospital is now located, was covered with stones. It was a fad of the Doctor's to pass an afternoon on the farm, gathering stones.

Preparing to leave for Aetna one morning, Alfred called at the office to receive instructions. It was late when the old gentleman put in an appearance. He had had a bad night and desired Alfred to accompany him to the farm.

Arriving at the farm, it was not long until he had Alfred picking up stones. The greater part of the day was thus spent. Alfred's back ached. He thought it the most peculiar fad a sane man ever indulged in. The Doctor was as deeply interested as though engaged in some great undertaking. A dozen boulders were placed in the buggy, as heavy a load as the old vehicle would stand up under. Driving to a point where the Doctor had quite a pile, the stones were unloaded and another load collected.

Rabbits were numerous. The next visit to the farm Alfred carried his gun. It was but a few moments until a cotton-tail jumped up in the path of the buggy. Alfred killed the rabbit. It was not long until four of the big-eared bunnies were dead on the buggy floor. The old Doctor began to show interest in the sport. When Alfred made a move to lay away his gun, the Doctor requested that he continue the hunt. Nor was it long until he advised Alfred that he would accompany him to Mt. Sterling and requested that the gun and dog be taken along. The Doctor without expressing himself as being at all interested, followed Alfred in the field. The only interest he seemed to take in the sport was when the hunter missed; then, knitting his brows, he would follow the birds with his eyes as they flew away.

Dr. Hawkes was the most unimpressionable of men. He had no conception of humor. He rarely smiled and never laughed outright. He assured Alfred that he would employ a man who had been in the penitentiary in preference to one who had traveled with a circus. The prejudiced old doctor was not aware that Alfred formerly followed the "red wagons."

A contract had been entered into to convey a number of young school girls to their homes in the country. The driver failed to report. An hour passed. The old doctor was greatly worried. The team was the best in the barn and more than anxious to answer to the driver's command. Alfred climbed to the seat. Old Miles, the barn boss, was in doubt as to entrusting the horses to a driver who was not familiar with them.

"Hol' on, boy. Everybody kan't handle dis team."

"Turn them loose, Miles, I'm on my way," Alfred shouting "All-aboard."

The Doctor looked on in doubt. Gazing up at Alfred he began questioning him as to where he had learned to drive four horses.

"Oh, when I was with a circus," replied Alfred. "I reined six better ones than these."

"You have a precious load. I'm really afraid to trust them to you. It would be an awful thing if you should not be able to handle the team. I'll send old Joe with you."

"It's not necessary," Alfred replied.

The young ladies aboard, the whip cracked, they were off; around the State House square, up High Street on a lively trot. The old Doctor stood on the corner with as near a smile on his face as Alfred ever noticed.

In the evening he complimented Alfred meagerly on his proficiency as a whip. Alfred laughingly reminded him that they did not teach you stage driving over at the "pen". Uncle Henry, a blacksmith who shod the Doctor's stage horses, asserted the reason the Doctor preferred those from the "pen" was that he could hire them cheaper.

James Clahane was facetiously dubbed "The Duke of Middletown" by his friends, and that meant everybody who was intimate with the good-natured Irishman.

There must be something ennobling in the blacksmith calling. It not only strengthens the muscles but the nature of a man.

When Doctor Hawkes projected the horse car line on West Broad Street, he solicited Clahane to buy stock. The old blacksmith had his hard-earned savings invested in West Broad Street building lots. The Doctor argued the street car line would not only pay handsome dividends but greatly enhance the value of abutting property. Clahane, very much against his judgment, invested considerable money in the street car line. The cars were not operated a month until Clahane questioned the Doctor as to when the road would strike a dividend. It was considered a good joke by all, save the Doctor.

Burglars cracked the street car safe, securing over four hundred dollars of the company's money. The news spread quickly. Clahane, minus coat, with plug hat in hand, (it was a hot morning), approached the office. Several gentlemen, including the Doctor, stood on the steps viewing the wreck within. Clahane, while yet the width of Broad Street away, shouted at the top of his voice: "Egad, Dhoctur, yese hev got yere divident." If the old Doctor realized the humor of this dig he never evidenced it.

The world declared the Doctor cold and uncharitable, but Alfred never enters Mt. Carmel Hospital that he does not lift his hat in reverence as he halts in front of the marble bust that so faithfully portrays the serious face of Doctor Hawkes.

In those days Heitman was Mayor, Sam Thompson Chief of Police, Lott Smith was the 'Squire of the town, and 'Squire Doney in the township. Chief Heinmiller ran the Fire Department and ran it right. Oliver Evans had the exclusive oyster trade of the city, handling it personally with a one horse wagon. The postoffice was near the Neil House. The canal boats unloaded at Broad Street, and Columbus had a Fourth of July celebration every year.

Alfred was one of a committee of young men laboring, to demonstrate to the world that the birth of this nation was an event, and incidently, to attract attention to a section of the city that had been overlooked in the way of street improvements. The large vacant field opposite the Blind Asylum was selected as the proper location for the Fourth of July celebration. The fact that the brass band, lately organized by the officers of the Blind Asylum, would be available for the exercises, had great weight with the committee, in selecting the location. Parsons Avenue, then East Public Lane, was the muddiest street in the city. Those who drove their cows home via East Public Lane will verify this statement.

The city council had been appealed to personally and by petition. Finally, to partially appease public outcry, a very narrow sidewalk was constructed from Friend, now Main Street, to Mound, one short square. This very narrow sidewalk aroused those of the neighborhood as never before, excepting when the pound was established and citizens prevented pasturing their live stock on the public streets.

Among the attractions of the Fourth of July celebration were Lon Worthington, tight-rope walker; Billy Wyatt, in fire-eating exercises; a greased pig; Ed DeLany, who was to read the Declaration of Independence and Alfred a burlesque oration.

There was universal dissatisfaction over the narrow sidewalk and many independent citizens refused to walk upon it. They waded in mud to their knees, and proudly boasted of their independence as citizens. Even ladies refused to use the sidewalk, asserting it was so narrow two persons could not pass without embracing.

There was an old soldier who bore the scars of numerous battles and was looking for more. On the glorious Fourth, to more strongly emphasize his disdain for the narrow sidewalk, he rigged himself out in the uniform he had worn throughout the war. Although it was excessively hot he wore not only his fatigue uniform but his heavy blue double-caped overcoat. He paraded up and down along the side of the detested sidewalk, never stepping foot upon it. When his feet became too heavy with mud he scraped it off on the edge of the walk as he cursed the city council. He consigned them to——, where there are no Fourth of Julys or sidewalks.

Strains of music foretold the coming of the grand parade, headed by the Blind Band, marching in the middle of the street, their movement guided by a Drum Major blessed with the sight of one eye. On they came, four abreast, taking up the narrow street from field fence line to narrow sidewalk line. From the opposite direction came the Son of Mars. He was large enough to be the father of that mythical warrior. The four slide trombone players leading the van were rapidly nearing the violent soldier who was taking up as much street as the four musicians; in fact, after his last visit to Ed Turner's saloon, the old soldier actually required the full width of the street. As the band and soldiers neared each other, it was evident there would be a collision. On the old "vet" marched, oblivious of everything on earth excepting the sidewalk. People yelled at him. One man who knew something of military tactics shouted "Halt!" The old veteran shouting back, to go to where he had consigned the city council and their sidewalk. "Get out of the way; let the band by!" Waving his mace as an emblem of authority, Jack Nagle, the policeman, ran towards the old soldier. "Get out of the way! Get out of the street! Get on the sidewalk! Can't you walk on the sidewalk?" "Walk on the sidewalk," shouted the old soldier, "Walk on the sidewalk? Huh, what in hell do you take me for, the tight-rope walker?"

The Fourth of July celebration was successful. In obtaining street improvements, East Public Lane was paved with brick twenty years afterwards, thus Alfred gained a reputation as a politician.

Years later, George J. Karb, a candidate for sheriff, requested Alfred and several of his friends to make a tour of the northern part of the county in his interest—a section noted for its piety and respectability. There were Mayor George Pagels and Bill Parks and Jewett of Worthington, Fred Butler of Dublin, Tom Hanson of Linworth, and numerous other deacons and elders to be seen. Karb requested that Alfred select the right people to accompany him. W. E. Joseph, Charley Wheeler and Gig Osborn, made up the committee that was to present the merits of the candidate for sheriff to the voters of the Linwood and Plain City section. Karb was furious when he learned that Fred Atcherson had volunteered to carry the party in his big Packard machine. He swore they would lose him more votes than he could ever hope to regain; an automobile was the detestation of every farmer. To complete the campaign organization the committee decided to wear the largest goggles, caps and automobile coats procurable. The first farmer's team they met shied off the road, upsetting the wagon, breaking the tongue and crushing one wheel. The committee gave the farmer an order on Fred Immel to repair the wagon if possible, otherwise deliver a new wagon to the bearer, charging same to George J. Karb.

This experience cautioned the party to be more careful. Another farmer's team approaching, they halted by the roadside a hundred yards from the passing point. Do what he would the farmer could not urge his team by the automobile. Charley Wheeler became impatient and sarcastic. "What's the matter? You going to hold us here all day? Didn't your crow-baits ever see a gas wagon before?"

"Yes, my team has seed gas wagons and gas houses afore," sneered the farmer, "but they hain't used to a hull pack of skeer crows in one crowd. When we put a skeer crow in a corn field, one's all we make. Some damned fools make a dozen and put 'em all in one automobile. If you'll all get out and hide, my team will go by your ole benzine tank."

Hot and dusty, the party halted in front of a hotel. The village was larger and more prosperous than any yet visited.

A number of men were threshing grain a few hundred yards away, the steam threshing machine attracting farmers from all the country about. One a peculiar man, more refined appearing than the others, had once been a college professor; overstudy had partially unbalanced his reason. He was versed in the classics. He took an especial interest in Alfred.

Bill Joseph is the luckiest man that ever tapped a slot machine. When traveling he often steps off the train while it halts at a depot and pulls his expenses out of a slot machine. On this day he was unusually lucky. The hotel had a varied assortment of drop-a-nickle-in-the-slot devices. Joe tapped them in a row. The hotel people looked upon him with suspicion. But when he carried the winnings into the bar, ordering the hotel man to slake the thirsts of the threshers, they were sort of reconciled. The old college professor, unlike the others, demanded something stronger than beer. His neighbors, who evidently had him in charge, endeavored to persuade him to go home.

On the Crowd Cheered

"Wait! Hold a minute. I want to talk to this man Field. He is a scientific man. His father laid the Atlantic cable. His family is noted the world over. I want to talk to him. The Field family are noted scientists."

One of those who seemed most intimate with the professor was an old soldier, very deaf.

"What did you say his name was?" he inquired.

"Field," replied the professor. "F-i-e-l-d."

"Field," repeated the old soldier. "Field. Well, I want nuthin' to do with him. Field was my captain's name in the army, an' he was the damnedest beat I ever knowed."

The old professor stuck to Alfred quoting Latin. He quoted a striking climax from one of Bryan's speeches, a quotation Bryan has been using in his Chautauqua lectures and political speeches for years. The old professor observed Claudius evolved this idea years ago. Alfred had no idea of who Claudius was, or how long ago he lived. However, when he located him four hundred years back, the old professor said "Huh, four hundred years ago? H-ll! Four thousand years." Alfred did not delve into the classics further.

Alfred presented the claims of Geo. Karb for the office of Sheriff and concluded his talk by inviting all to call on Karb when they happened in Columbus. "And when election day comes around, I hope you will all see your way clear to cast your votes for him, even though you are opposed to him politically. We must not adhere too strictly to our political prejudices in selecting officers to look after our personal affairs. And that's what a sheriff should do, and that's what Geo. Karb will do. Therefore, I ask you to cast your votes for Geo. J. Karb for sheriff of Franklin County."

The crowd cheered.

The old professor took it upon himself to reply. First, he thanked all for the honor they did his community by visiting them. "We have too few scientists visit us and I hope Mr. Field will come again when he can enlighten us on many scientific matters of which we are in doubt. As to his candidate for Sheriff of Franklin County, we know he is deserving or Mr. Field and the eminent gentlemen would not commend him. And I know that every voter here would be glad to vote for Mr. Karb if we lived in Franklin County."

The facts are, the committee in their zeal, were electioneering in Milford Center, Union County.

Joe was pryed off the slot machines and a solemn compact entered into that the part of the electioneering tour over the Franklin County line be forever held and guarded as a sealed book.

---

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO]

And far away—up yonder, in the window o' the blue,
The dreamed-of angels listen to an echo glad and new—
Thrilled to the Gates of Glory, and they say:
"Heaven's love to you,
Brother of the Light that makes the Morning!"

"If John kin do better in Columbus, hit's yo're duty to go." Thus Linn advised the mother.

Columbus was a big city but it was not home. The mother was discontented and longed for the old town back yonder. Alfred had promised to abandon his circus ambitions. He had just concluded a season in the south with the Simmons & Slocum Minstrels, a famous troupe of those days. E. N. Slocum was a Columbus man. Alfred had received an offer to cross the ocean with Haverly's Minstrels, a very large company. Haverly had invaded London previously and the success of that venture aroused great hopes for the success of the second company. The mother's strenuous opposition to Alfred's acceptance of the engagement was backed up by Uncle Henry Hunt, who was on a visit from Burlington, Iowa.

Uncle Henry was born in Elk County, Ky. His mother died when he was very young. His father married soon after the death of the first wife. The younger sister and himself did not appeal strongly to the step-mother. She was deeply interested in church work, and had little time to devote to the half orphaned children or her home. A plantation and a hundred and fifty slaves engaged all the father's time. The boy and girl ran wild on the place and it was little wonder they often came in for censure and even more severe punishment. The sister seemed more aggravating to the new mother than the boy. Reprimands became more frequent, followed by bodily punishment. During the father's absence in Louisville, the step-mother's abuse of the sister became so aggravating to the brother that he assaulted the step-mother. The boy, fearing the wrath of the father, determined to run away. He had relatives, a brother in Newark, Ohio. Walking and working, he reached Newark, footsore, weary, lonesome and homesick. He felt he had reached a haven of rest.

The wife of the brother was the best man. She ran the husband, she ran the home. Ragged and miserable looking, his reception was anything but cordial. The recital of his wrongs, the abuse of his sister by the step-mother, instead of creating sympathy, brought censure. The brother's wife was a most devout church member and that a boy of fourteen had descended to the depths of degradation his condition denoted, was most abhorrent to her.

The boy realized that he was an unwelcome guest. It was not long ere the brother, influenced by the wife, informed him that he must go back to his home, to the old plantation in Kentucky, that he must submit to the authority of the step-mother, become a better boy, that his behavior, had disgraced the family, and that he, the brother, could not harbor him longer. The brother's wife assured him the prayers of herself and family would go up for him nightly. They gave him no food, they gave him no money. When the door of his brother's house closed upon him, all there was of love in his being for kith or kin went out of him, save for the memory of the dead mother and the living sister. He worked on a farm barefooted; he slept in an out-house without sufficient covering to keep him warm; he carried a clap-board to the field that he might protect his feet from the frost while he husked corn. He apprenticed himself to a blacksmith, learned the trade and came to Columbus. He established a shop at a crossroads in the country. It became known as Hunt's Corners. It is now the corner of Cleveland and Mt. Vernon Avenues.

Uncle Henry, through influence, secured a contract from the penitentiary. He accumulated money, moved to Burlington, Iowa, became one of the prosperous, progressive business men of that beautiful city. That Uncle Henry's heart was hardened towards relatives did not change his generous disposition towards friends.

Alfred liked the rugged old blacksmith whose good nature and wholesome hospitality were the admiration of all who were fortunate enough to be his guests. He entertained as few men can entertain. The host of a home is a difficult social role to fill. There are no rules, no book-lessons that teach it. It is an inborn trait and comes only to a man who loves the companionship, the good-fellowship of human beings. Uncle Henry was noted for the good things to eat he so abundantly provided. However, had he served the plainest food to those whom he welcomed, his hearty hospitality would have made it a feast.

Uncle Henry

Uncle Henry soothingly addressed the mother: "Sis," (he always addressed her as "Sis,"), "Alfred's not going to England. He has walked many dusty roads, like myself, and he's all the better for it, but you can't walk back from England. I've told him so. Alfred's going to stay right here in this country. He's all right. He's going with a circus. He's a better circus manager than plenty of them that's making money. When he gets a little older, hard behind the ears, we're going to get up a company and start him out right. I've talked it all over with Grimes and two or three other friends. Now you and John just let that boy alone. He'll come out all right."

The mother said: "Alfred has promised me he will not go with another circus. It keeps us worried all the time. I'm afraid something will happen him."

"Yes, something will happen him, and you take it from me, it will happen here or there, and it's more liable to happen here than there. Say, Sis, come on, be a sensible woman. Never drive your boys away. Never coax them to lie."

"Why, I haven't coaxed Alfred to lie," quickly answered the mother.

"Say, Sis, you've been coaxing that boy to lie since he was able to paddle his own canoe. Your coaxing him to do that, he will never do. That is, stay at home and paint wagons, houses or boats. Give him his way. He'll have it anyhow, you see if he don't. If he wants to start a grocery, I'll loan him the money. But, he'll never make a groceryman. Suppose they'd tried to make a preacher out me," (and all laughed), Uncle Henry said, "Yes, you laugh at the very idea of it. Let me tell you something, and I hope Alfred's high-falutin' preacher uncles and others won't get red in the face when they hear of it. If you all keep caterwauling Alfred around, he wouldn't amount to three hurrahs in Halifax."

"He may work for Doctor Hawkes forty years longer and he will be no better off than a living. There's no hope for a boy in working for a man like Doctor Hawkes. The Doctor's all right but he never assisted a human being to better himself. He's like all other rich men. He just uses men to pile it up for himself, and any man that can't pile it up for himself, or don't make a big try to do so, needs shingling. I never had any relatives to pull me back, and I never had any to put me forward."

"Where is your brother and his wife?" someone asked Uncle Henry.

"Wheeling cinders," came quick as a flash.

"Oh, Uncle Henry, I am surprised."

"Well, the reason I say that, is, they told me that people that did certain things would sure go there"—and he pointed downwards—"and they did those very things so what can I say when you ask me where they are?"

---

Peter Sells and Alfred were close friends. The Sells Bros. Show had opened early—April 16, 17, 18. It rained or snowed every day during their engagement in Columbus. The show was to appear in Chillicothe a few days after leaving Columbus. Peter Sells came into the stage office and arranged to go to Chillicothe. He had returned from Kentucky to confer with his brothers. Alfred accepted his invitation to accompany him to Chillicothe. The after concert, with no performers to present it, had been omitted for three days. Alfred advised Ephraim Sells that could he find wardrobe a concert could be given that afternoon and night. The wardrobe was secured. The announcer made much of the "great minstrel comedian" who would positively appear in the concert for this day only. Nat Goodwin and his company, who were to appear in the opera house that night, were in the audience.

Ephraim, Allen and Peter Sells, and Alfred were seated on a bench in front of the hotel. Allen Sells was endeavoring to persuade Alfred to remain with the show.

While the dicker was pending, a young clerk from a store door, yelled to a passer-by on the opposite side of the street: "Were you at the circus?" The other yelled: "Yes." "How was it?" "Bum, but the concert's good. That Al. G. Field that was here last winter in the opera house, is with them. The concert's the best part of the whole thing. I guess the minstrels are busted, or Field wouldn't be with such a bum circus."

The Sells Brothers appreciated the joke.

The argument ended abruptly by the engagement of Alfred.

Ephraim Sells was exacting in all his dealings. Severe with the drunkard, he endeavored to assist all temperate and deserving employes, advising men to secure their own homes. "Own your home. You will never accumulate anything without a home. Establish a home, raise a family, be somebody." There are many men living in Columbus today who owe all their possessions to Ephraim Sells' advice.

The Sells Brothers Shows were larger than the Thayer & Noyes. In fact, the Sells Shows had the advantage of a menagerie. The circus performance was not so meritorious as the first circus Alfred was connected with. The Sells brothers, with the exception of Peter, were not good showmen; that is, they were not producers, although good business men. Had the Sells brothers possessed the talent for originating and producing displayed by James A. Bailey, or Alfred T. Ringling, their organization would have been second to none, as they had the opportunities but did not take advantage of them.

They were undoubtedly exhibiting the finest menagerie in the country, the collection of animals, with the exception of a giraffe, was most complete. Peter, the advance agent, returned to the show. He severely criticized the appearance of the show, particularly the lack of decorations. Nashville was a two days' stand. Ephraim gave Alfred orders to buy all the decorations, banners, flags, etc., necessary to convert the interior of the tents into a bower of beauty. Nashville stores were ransacked. Printed calico or other goods with the national colors emblazoned on them were the only decorations available. Wagon loads of these goods were purchased. Side poles were festooned with the gaudy colored calico, and lengths of it hung in front of the reserved seats, on the band stand, the entrance to the dressing tents. The decorations were the wonder and admiration of the circus folks. Drivers, razor-backs, car porters, cook tent, side show people came again to gaze upon the riot of color presented by the decorations. It rained as it only rains in Nashville. The surrounding country is fame's eternal camping ground. Here sleep men from all the States of the North and South. It is the bivouac of the dead. The hills have trembled with the tramp of armies. Blood has flowed as freely as the rushing waters of the murky Cumberland. Hills now green with nature's garb were once stained with the blood of those who struggled for the mastery. But no battlefield near Nashville ever presented the sight that did the hill on which stood Sells Brothers tents in the soft haze of that October morning. Running rivulets of red percolated in a hundred gulleys from under the circus tents. The gaudy red calico was now white, but all the plains below were red. Thousands came to view the sight. One negro spread the news that "the varmints wus all loose and had et up all de circus folks case de blood was leakin' out de tents in buckets-full." Another surmised "De elephans had upset the lemonade tubs."

The decorations had faded white, the hills were red, Ephraim and Lewis made the air blue.

Lewis sarcastically suggested Alfred communicate with Peter advising we had decorations, but they ran away, and we didn't have time to go down in the hollow and dip them up.

One morning the startling news went around that the old man had fired the principal clown. In those days the old clown was best man with a circus. He was the entertainer—the leading man. He must be eloquent, nimble and a comedian. Every circus had it's popular clown. It was the days of Dan Rice, Ben McGinley, Pete Conklin, Johnny Patterson, Walcutt, Den Stone, John Lowlow, and others. Therefore, when Alfred was ordered—not requested—to prepare himself for the important role of principal clown, he was no little taken aback.

"I have no costumes, I have no gags, I have no make-up," were Alfred's excuses.

After all the boyhood day dreams, after all the preparations in his mind, after all the yearnings, all the ambitious hopes of a boy's lifetime, here was the coveted opportunity to become a clown in the circus. And, now when the opportunity to immortalize himself, to earn a salary as great as Jimmy Reynolds, and eventually buy a farm, he shied.

A performer from Chiranni's Circus in South America dug from the bottom of his trunk as funny a clown costume as ever Joy donned. When made up, all pronounced Alfred as funny appearing as any clown. "He has a beak like Dan Rice and feet like Dr. Thayer," were a few of the side remarks.

Alfred determined he would not use the jokes of the clown who had just left. The clown in those days was given unlimited opportunities. The tents were smaller—his voice reached every auditor. Sam Rinehart, good old Sam, was the ringmaster. Those of Jimmy Reynold's jokes Alfred could not bring to memory, Sam remembered. Therefore, the new clown was a success, with the circus people at least. Jimmy Reynolds' gags were new around the show, and if Alfred was not receiving Jimmy's salary he was telling his jokes. Alfred introduced local talks, which pleased the audiences greatly.

Alfred as the Old Clown

All efforts to engage a clown were terminated by the manager making an agreement with Alfred, installing him as principal clown, a vocation he followed many summers. Lin's prophesy was literally fulfilled: "You kin clown h-it in summer and nigger it in winter."

On that first day Alfred, nervously awaiting his cue to enter the ring as a clown, cautiously peered through the red damask curtains at the dressing room entrance. A boy on a top seat nearby caught sight of the white-painted face. In an ecstacy of joy he clapped his hands, shouting: "Oh, there's the old clown, there's the old clown." Sam Rinehart, sotto voice, standing near the band stand, remarked: "If that kid only knowed how dam new he is he wouldn't call him the old clown." Of all the roles enacted by Alfred, that of the circus clown was most enjoyed. With thousands around him, in sympathy with every mishap or quip, at liberty to introduce any business that would amuse, with constantly changing audiences, Alfred enjoyed his work as greatly as did his auditors.

"Alfred will come to town sum day a real clown in a circus, and the whole country will turn out to see him. Litt Dawson, the Congressman, won't be so much when Alfred gits to goin'." This was another of Lin's prophesies.

Alfred came back home a real clown in a circus. The whole country turned out. No circus ever attracted the multitudes in such numbers. Hundreds turned away at both performances. Alfred's only regret was that Lin was not present. Two children had come to her. One was named John, the girl Mary, in honor of Alfred's father and mother. Lin had trouble with the school-marm. The children, as children often did in those days, brought home a few insects in their hair. Lin pursued them vigorously with a fine-toothed comb. To more quickly exterminate them, Lin gave the head of each child an application of lard and sulphur. The teacher sent the children home with a note advising Lin the preparation on their heads was offensive to her, the smell could not be tolerated. Lin led the children back to the school, tartly informing the school-marm that her children were "sent to school to be larnt, not smellt."

When Alfred visited old Loudon County he fully expected to meet Lin and her family. When informed the big, hearty, wholesome woman had paid nature's debt and that nearly her last words were a message to his father and mother, the pleasure of his visit was greatly marred.

The Sells Brothers and the Barnum Show were having opposition in Indiana. The late James Anderson, of Columbus, who for years was the superintendent of Doctor Hawkes Stage, Carriage & Transfer Company, was the manager of Sells Brothers Show. Ben Wallace was the liveryman who furnished the hay and oats for the circus. Anderson and Wallace became acquainted. A few days later Anderson informed Alfred that he and the tall young liveryman in Peru had formed a partnership to organize a circus. They offered Alfred a much greater salary than Sells Brothers were paying him, and also a winter's work organizing the show. A contract already signed with the Duprez and Benedict Minstrels was cancelled, an office opened in Comstock's Opera House, Columbus, Ohio. Every performer, every musician, etc., with the Wallace Show that first season was engaged by Alfred. Neither Wallace or Anderson knew what their show was to be until rehearsals began in Peru. Both were pleased.

A bit of heretofore unwritten history: After Alfred had refused several offers, after all the best shows had their people engaged, Mr. Anderson, returning from Cincinnati, called on Alfred. The first word he uttered chilled Alfred's blood. "Call everything off, cancel all contracts, the show don't go out."

Alfred had antagonized Sells Brothers and others by engaging people who had been with them for years. He had burned the bridges behind him, as it were. Mr. Anderson, in explanation, advised that he had been disappointed in money matters. Men that were to assist him had gone back on their promises, the printing firm demanded a deposit, he saw ruin staring him in the face. It was useless to argue the matter with Anderson. It was nearly morning when the men separated. At eight o'clock Alfred was at the office awaiting Mr. Anderson's arrival. Anderson was still more dejected than the night before.

"What amount of money do you require?" asked Alfred.

"Three thousand dollars."

"Will that see you through and put the show out?" was Alfred's next question.

"With what I've got I can get through on that."

"Well, I'll let you have it."

Ben Wallace is a money-getter and would win success in any business. However, the President of the Wabash Valley Trust Company, the owner of the Hagenback-Wallace Shows, with the finest winter quarters of any show in the country, with hundreds of acres of the most productive farming land in Miami County, Ind., will never know until he reads these pages the narrow margin by which the show was saved, insofar as Anderson was concerned.

Lewis Sells was a peculiar man in many respects and one must thoroughly understand his composition to appreciate him. His educational advantages were limited. From a street car conductor to an auctioneer, showman and capitalist, were the gradations of his career. He was conservative and sagacious, a faithful friend, and, like Uncle Henry, and most men who have tasted of the bitter and prospered by their own exertions, a candid hater. The after years of his life were made unpleasant by a heartless robbery perpetrated by those near him. The loss of the money, some thirty thousand dollars, was as nothing compared to the chagrin over the fact that those who committed the theft were enabled to cover their work so completely the law could not reach them. He fretted that they robbed him at the end of his long and successful career.

For several months Alfred filled the position of General Agent for the Sells Brothers Combined Shows, to the complete satisfaction of all the Brothers and the disappointment of many subordinates.

It is not wealth nor ancestry, but honorable conduct and a noble disposition that makes men great. Peter Sells was a great man. He would have graced any profession or calling. In all his life he was affable and congenial. When he was prosperous he was not imperious or haughty. When he was oppressed he was not meek. Suffering as few men have suffered he refused to wreak that vengeance upon the destroyers of his home, man is justified in—take a doubled-barreled shot gun and inform those who have wronged you that the world is not large enough for both. This was the advice of one who stood by Peter Sells in all his troubles. Another took him to the country, engaged in shooting at a mark with a forty-four Smith & Wesson, intimating that he could settle all his troubles by dealing out the punishment those who had broken up his home deserved.

Peter, with a calmness that was most impressive replied: "I'll commit no crime. There comes a time in the life of every human being that their life is lived over. It is in that hour when the coffin lid is shut down. Just before the funeral when earth has seen the last of you, your life is lived over in the conversation which recounts your deeds upon earth. I will do no forgiving, but I will do no killing."

In comparison with the loss of a wife, all other bereavements pale. She has filled so large a sphere in your life you think of the past when your lives were entwined, of the days when life was a beautiful pathway of flowers. The sun shone on the flowers, the stars hung overhead. You think of her now as you thought of her then in all the gentleness of her beauty. You think of her now as the mother of your child. No thorns are remembered. The heart whose beat measured an eternity of love to you lies under your feet but the love of her still lives in your being. You forget the injury, you forget the disgrace, you forget all of the present, only remembering the happiness of the past. You know she lives in a world where sunshine has been overshadowed by clouds, yet you love her all the more, although to you she is even further removed than by death.

Such were the last days of Peter Sells. It is well the old way of satisfying honor is giving way. Yet with all its brutality it had the merit of protecting the home. Only those who were close to Peter Sells knew of the burden he bore, the weight of sorrow that cut short a life that has left its impress of nobleness upon all who were privileged to share his confidence and friendship.

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[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE]

In the land of the sage and the cottonwood,
The cactus plant and the sand,
When you've just dropped in from the effete East
There's a greeting that's simply grand;
It's when some giant comes up to you,
With a hand that weighs a ton,
And cries as he smites you on the back;
"Why, you derned old son of a gun!"

Texas, quoting Col. Bailey of the Houston Post, "is a symphony, a vast hunk of mellifluence, an eternal melody of loveliness, a grand anthem of agglomerated and majestic beneficence. Texas is heaven on earth and sea and sky set to music."

With ample room to spare, Texas would accommodate either Austria-Hungary, Germany and France; and if it were populated as thickly as is Belgium it would have a population of over 265,000,000.

The State of Texas could accommodate comfortably the people of all the European nations.

Texas was wild and woolly when Alfred first toured it with a wagon show. Weatherford was away out west; Dallas was in its swaddling clothes and Houston was a village. Hunting was good just over the corporation line and there was no closed season on anything. Charley Gibbs and Henry Greenwall owned the State. Charley Highsmith was a schoolboy; he had never owned a dog or looked along the barrels of a double-barreled gun. Mike Conley was setting type in a printing office run by hand, and Bill Sterritt was the printer's devil, excepting when ducks were coming in. Ben McCullough was the only railroad man in north Texas, and George Green the only Republican in the State. Jake Zurn had not left Germany and Jim Hogg was a cowboy.

A pair of Texas ponies, an open buggy, a doubled-barreled shotgun, two dogs and an invalid, were Alfred's constant companions on that tour of Texas. The invalid who was touring Texas for his health, was a relative of the managers, a German, refined and scholarly, a high class gentleman.

This was the introduction:

"Alfred, Mr. Smith is not well. The doctor advised that he live in the open. He is my guest and I want him to ride with you. I am sure you will like him. I want this trip to benefit his health. You have the best team with the company. You can make the route in half the time it requires the show to drive it. Sleep late in the morning."

Despite this advice, the invalid and Alfred were well on their way by daylight almost every morning, nor did they make the routes in half the time the show did. It was more frequently the reverse, particularly if the shooting was good. The invalid was the wellest sick-man companion ever toured with. His cheeks were sallow, low in flesh, but the spirit was there. It was a case of the invalid looking after the nurse. The vast plains were covered with cattle—Texas steers. The invalid marvelled at their numbers. While Alfred was scouring the prairie with dog and gun the invalid would stand erect in the buggy, on the road side, computing the number of Texas steers within sight. How the cattle men separated their droves, claiming their cattle, was a wonderment. Cowboys and Texas steers was a theme on which the invalid never tired talking. Texas steers were a hobby with him. He would talk with cowboys for hours, collecting information.

Many nights the circus people in making long drives between exhibiting points were compelled to sleep in their wagons, tents, or anywhere they could find shelter. This sort of life soon brought bronze to the invalid's cheeks and strength to his body.

Pidcock's Ranch, embraced several thousand acres of land, a house with four rooms and porch or veranda. All the house was given over to the ladies. Alfred explained to the manager of the ranch that he had in charge an invalid and requested the ranchman to do the best he could for them in the way of sleeping quarters. The ranchman arranged a comfortable bed on the porch for the invalid and Alfred, advising they would be compelled to sit up until the ladies retired. All had long retired ere the invalid put in an appearance. The invalid invariably found congenial company—cowboys, cattlemen or rangers. Each night finding his way to bed he would awaken Alfred to explain something new as to Texas steers. The invalid had dispatched two cowboys thirty miles for refreshments. The invalid did not part from his guests until late. Alfred's wife had sent him a birthday present, a pair of night-shirts worked with red braid, and he was very proud of them. The invalid on retiring commented again on the beauty of Alfred's hand-painted night-shirts and the immensity of the droves of Texas steers.

Sleeping in the open on the porch, their slumbers were deep. Awaking late, Alfred's face felt drawn up. It was as though it was puckered out of all shape. Placing his hand on a substance as large as a hulled hickory nut, it was with some little difficulty peeled from his face. A dozen other lumps of similar size were scattered over his ample countenance. Glancing at the invalid whose face was adorned with a full set of whiskers, Alfred discovered they were liberally sprinkled with the whitish-grayish substance that adorned his own face and the front of his decorated night garments. Prying loose another lump, Alfred, holding the substance at arm's length, scrutinizing it closely, endeavoring to analyze it. A "cluck-cluck" caused him to look aloft and there, on a beam, sat ten or twelve contented "dominicker" hens. He could discern but half of their bodies—that part that goes over the fence last. Rudely awaking the invalid, Alfred brushing, picking and pinching the white and greenish bumps from face and night-shirt, indulging in language not proper even on a Texas ranch, he slowly worked his way to the watering trough (the only bathing facility), followed by the invalid, who was parting his whiskers to free them from the hidden lumps, meanwhile endeavoring to console Alfred: "Never mindt, Alfred. Never mindt. Your shirt vill vash all right, und my viskers, too," parting his whiskers and dumping a few more deposits, he remarked: "It's purty badt I know, but, Alfred, it might a bin wusser. 'Ust s'posin' dem schickens roostin' over us hadt been Texas steers."

---

"The sooner a man goes into business, the sooner he will be able to retire; that is, if he is baked done. If he ain't, he better let somebody do business for him. My boy, it's better to go into business too young than too old. If you happen to spill the beans, you've got the vim to pick them up again."

"Well, Uncle Henry, if I have good luck this season, I'm going to make a break for myself."

"Good luck, huh? If you're lookin' for luck to help you, you'll be so near-sighted you can't see a business chance across a narrow alley. If luck got you anything you might. There ain't no luck coming to any man that waits on it. Every man that's got any get-up in him always has bad luck. He brings it on himself, then he just beats luck out. There ain't no good luck. It's grit and judgment agin dam-fool notions. And grit and judgment wins out nearly every time. I'd rather drive a bad bargain than drive a dray. You can drive a dozen bargains a day. You can drive only one dray. One of your bargains may buck, the other eleven win out. A minstrel show is alright, but, mind, it's a lifetime job, going into business. You ought to know what you're doing. But, I'd thought you'd go into the circus business."

"Well, I would, Uncle Henry, but I haven't got the capital. It takes more money than I ever hope to possess. Besides, I want a business wherein I can make a reputation for myself."

"You better go into a business where you can make money. The reputation will make itself. If you can't make money, you can't make reputation."

"But it's my ambition to have the biggest minstrel show in the country."

"Well, you do that which you feel would be the most agreeable to you. When I went into the grocery business in Burlington, everybody behind my back predicted I would lose out. Everybody told me to my face I'd win out. Make up your mind to stand on your own judgment."

Sam Flickinger, editor of the Ohio State Journal, wrote the first mention of the Al. G. Field Minstrels. He gave Alfred desk room in the job office of the Journal, of which he was manager and editor. The first advertising for the Al. G. Field Minstrels was printed in the job office of the Ohio State Journal. The dates and small bills have been printed in that office, or the successors of it, ever since.

Almost every one of Alfred's friends advised him to abandon the idea of entering the minstrel business. His family were all opposed to it.

This was the manner in which Alfred's declaration as to going into business seemed to be received by his friends.

Col. Reppert of the B. & O. assured Alfred he would send him a ticket to any point he might require it from. Billy McDermott, probably fearing the Colonel might not get the ticket to him, presented Alfred with a pair of broad-soled low-heeled walking shoes.

There was one staunch friend whose words were always encouraging. "You're right, old boy. I wish you all the success you so richly deserve. Never mind the knockers. You're in right. You'll make it go." Thus did Bill Hunter of the Penna. R. R. encourage Alfred. Alfred often declared Bill a level-headed man, one who would be heard from later.

Frank Field was the city passenger agent of the Penna. R. R. Frank and Bill were very kindly disposed towards show folks. They carried a troupe on their own account over the Penna. Lines. They were security for the fares to the amount of a couple of hundred dollars. The troupe stranded Bill held the musical instruments. The instruments were taken to the city ticket office, concealed under the counter. Bill and Frank were "stuck." They endeavored to dispose of the horns to Alfred. Alfred joked Bill frequently, advising him to organize a band, and learn to play one of the horns. This "guying" did not alter Bill's attitude towards Alfred's enterprise. He was even more optimistic as to its success. Bill would slap Alfred on the back, saying: "Never mind the salary you are leaving. You'll make more money with this minstrel show in a year than you would on salary in two."

Alfred from the first day he began his minstrel career sought to introduce new ideas; not to do things as they had been done. He was the first to uniform the parade. The costumes were long, light-colored, newmarket overcoats, black velvet collar, stylishly patterned. They were very attractive overcoats, contrasting effectively with the red broadcloth, gold-trimmed band uniforms.

The company rehearsed in Columbus and opened at Marion, Ohio, October 6, 1886. The opening day was a dismal, rainy, fall day, just verging on winter. Alfred's good friends gathered in the union depot at Columbus to bid the minstrels Godspeed, although they traveled on another line. Bill Hunter was at the depot to see them off. The genteel appearance of the troupe, especially the overcoats, were favorably commented upon. Bill shook hands with each member of the company as they entered the car. When the last man was aboard, when the last good-bye had been spoken, Barney McCabe remarked to those assembled: "I don't know what kind of a show Alfred's got, but they have the finest overcoats that ever went out of this depot." Bill, winking at Barney, said: "I'll have 'em all before two weeks. If he makes money with this troupe, he can ketch bass with biscuits."

Another of Alfred's innovations was a large amount of scenery and properties. Each piece of baggage was marked with bright letters, "The Al. G. Field Minstrels."

The afterpiece, "The Lime Kiln Club," was quite a pretentious affair for a minstrel company in those days. The stage setting, representing the interior of a Lodge, required antiquated furniture such as could not be hired in the one night stands. Therefore, the minstrels carried all this furniture, a large sheet-iron wood stove with lengths of stovepipe. Not until the last trunk was loaded onto the baggage wagon, did Alfred leave the depot that first morning. Walking slowly along the street, keeping pace with the heavy wagon, proud of the new trunks with the plainly painted names on each, the furniture for "The Lime Kiln Club," with the stove and stovepipe atop of all, the wagon passed up the street.

While passing a building in course of erection, the workmen ceased their labors to gaze at the wagon. A plasterer with limey overalls gazed at the wagon intently until it passed by. Turning to his fellow workmen, pushing his hands in his pockets deeper, and shrugging his shoulders, he sympathetically remarked: "Hit's mighty cole weather fur flittin'. I allus feel sorry for pore folks as has tu move in cole weather." Looking down the street from where the wagon came he continued: "I wonder whar the folks is. Walkin' to keep warm, I reckon. I hope they hain't any children." Thereafter, Alfred ordered the odd furniture, stovepipe and stove loaded in the bottom of the wagon.

A heavy rain interfered with the attendance the opening night. In the excitement, Alfred did not realize that he had lost money. It was only after the second night—Upper Sandusky—that he figured the first two nights were unprofitable. Chas. Alvin Davis, of Alvin Joslin fame, and his manager, were visitors the second night. The receipts at Bucyrus were very light, and to pile up troubles for the new minstrel manager, a boy connected with the theatre stole from Alfred's clothes in the dressing room all his private funds. The empty pocket-book was found in an ash-barrel at the rear of the boy's residence, yet the police did not feel it was sufficient evidence to warrant the arrest of the young scamp.

The fourth night, at Mansfield, rain, hail, sleet and snow, such as Ohio had never experienced at that season of the year, (October 10), made the streets impassable. The minstrels played to a very meager audience. After all bills were paid the company had thirty-seven dollars in the treasury.

Several friends in Columbus assured Alfred that if he ran short he could draw on them. Alfred had learned six weeks was the most lengthened period any of his friends gave him to keep the company afloat.

"He's ruined. All his savings gone, he will be worse off than when he began life." This was the comment of one of his dearest friends.

Leaving Mansfield at midnight, arriving at Ashland, Alfred, that he might not have the night lodging to pay, sat in the depot until daylight, then sauntered to the hotel. Thirty-seven dollars in the treasury, cold and snowing. Alfred debated in his mind as to whether he should telegraph his friends in Columbus for assistance. His decision was: "No, I will not humble myself. I'll pull through some way. Besides, I have invested my own money in this concern. If I lose it, it's gone. I can earn more. If I borrow money and lose, I'm in debt."

He didn't know he could do it. He wasn't sure he could pull the show through. He had heard and seen the sneers and smiles of incredulity. He remembered Uncle Henry's advice:

"If you haven't got the stuff in you to stand alone and fight for yourself, you're wasting time trying to do business. Being smart is only half of it. Being game is the other half. The biggest persimmons are atop of the tree. You've got to climb to get them. There are times when you'll have to hold on by your finger tips. But if you're not game enough to take the risk, you don't deserve what's up at the top. The cowards are standing under the tree waiting for the persimmons to fall. There's so many of them they have to fight harder to get those that fall to the ground than the game fellow that climbs the tree. Men will pull you down, tramp on you, in their endeavors to climb over you. It's the selfish idea of many men they can build up more rapidly if they tear down. They'll block your game, they'll lie about you, they'll not only throw you down but they'll sit on you, and hold you down, until you gather force to squirm from under. You'll never suffer as much when you have the least as you do when the grit has leaked out of you. The man who climbs the tree from the bottom to the top is never licked. If they pull him down he will start from the bottom again. Poverty cannot ruin him. It's only a check. He has less fear than those who have had a ladder placed against the tree for them to climb up. Believe in yourself. Take everything that belongs to you. Take your licking but don't sell out to cowardice. When your grit's gone you're done for."

A thin, a very thin partition between the room he occupied and that of two of his principal people, Alfred was compelled to play the role of eavesdropper again.

"He won't pull through. I am sorry I joined the show, I throwed away a good engagement to accept this one. I'm stuck again. This thing won't last a week. I'm going to get away at the first opportunity." It was one of a talented team of musicians. They not only did a fine specialty but doubled in the band. The one talking was the manager of the act. Alfred held a contract with the trio. He had fulfilled all the requirements of it and they owed him considerable money, advanced for hotel bills during rehearsals, railroad fares, etc. He lay on the bed debating with himself what to do, enter the room and throw the talker out of the window, or have him arrested.

"I heard Field tell his treasurer he had no money. I'm going to skip. Take my word for it, we're all up against it."

The other replied: "Well, I owe the company a lot of money. I'll stick until I see how it goes."

Alfred was on fire. He would die rather than fail. The following day was Sunday. This would entail extra expense. Basing his calculations upon receipts in other cities, he feared he would not have funds to carry the company to Akron, the next exhibition point.

He accidently met a Columbus man, a minister, Reverend Messie, the pastor of the church where Alfred's family worshipped. He had recently officiated at the wedding of Alfred's sister; he felt he had met a friend from home. He decided to lay his troubles before the good man but weakened at the beginning. Instead he inquired as to whether the minister was acquainted with a banker in the city. The minister accompanied Alfred to a bank and had Alfred requested him, to make a favorable talk for him, the good man could not have said more.

"This is Mr. Field, a friend and neighbor of mine. He has not acquainted me with the nature of his business with you, but he is responsible, owns property in Columbus and bears an excellent reputation."

The banker invited the minstrel into his private office. Alfred made a statement of his affairs, dwelling strongly on the robbery at Bucyrus, exhibiting newspaper clippings to substantiate his statements.

"Let us see what your liabilities are. Going over them, there were none. Nearly all of the company were indebted for money advanced. I can't see where you are in any financial trouble. You have no debts following you, have you?"

"None," answered Alfred.

"Well, what is the trouble?"

"It's like this," the minstrel explained. "We've done no business since we opened. I have lost money at every stand. I have but thirty-seven dollars on hand. It's a big jump to Akron. I am sure, I'll require a little money, not much. If it hadn't been for that touch at Bucyrus I'd be all right."

"You'll do business here. It's the best minstrel town in Ohio. Primrose & West did fairly well, although our people didn't know them. Hi Henry packed the house."

"I fear people do not know us," sighed Alfred.

"Well, I'll introduce you—they will know you."

Alfred had ended every statement with the wail that if he had not been robbed in Bucyrus he would be all right.

"The bank closes at noon. Come around, take lunch with me, I'll see you to Akron. Don't worry. I fear you're a bit shaky. You are just starting in business, you require confidence."

"If it hadn't been for the touch at Bucyrus, I'd have been all right," ruefully remarked Alfred.

The President and Alfred made a round of the business houses of the town.

"This is Mr. Field, the minstrel man, one of our people. His home is in Columbus. I just bought four seats. The seats are going pretty fast. I want you to be there tonight. Have you got your tickets?"

No one seemed to have taken the precaution to buy seats in advance although all declared they were going. Rarely did the callers leave a place until those called upon had reserved their seats. It was not long until the seat sale assured Alfred it would not be necessary to negotiate a loan.

"I would have helped you out if you had needed the money," declared the banker, "but I knew we could hustle a bit and fill the house."

The gentleman was a good story-teller. Alfred was in a rare good humor. He had a fund of stories new to the banker. The fact of the robbery in Bucyrus was detailed to every business man they called upon. All sympathized with Alfred. "Bucyrus is a tough town," several remarked. "You'll never get your money," another declared. "Be more careful if you ever go there again."

When about to separate, the banker in a kindly manner assured Alfred that he was only too glad to have been of service to him. He spoke encouragingly of the future. "If you have a good show, you are sure to pull through. I wouldn't carry a great amount of money on my person hereafter if I were you. Be careful. Do not have a repetition of the Bucyrus affair. How much did they get from you over there?"

"Sixty dollars." The words were scarcely uttered until the banker bursted into a fit of laughter. Alfred had never been accused of destiny, but he could not realize what there was in the admission to so excite the man's mirth. Had the gentleman known what sixty dollars meant to him at that time, it would not have seemed so funny. From the fact that Alfred had dwelt so strongly on the theft of his money, with the constantly repeated statement that "if it had not been for the robbery, he would have been all right," the moneyed man had gained the idea he had lost several hundred dollars; hence his mirth.

At Akron the minstrels did capacity business. Warren and Youngstown were equally satisfactory as were New Castle and Steubenville. Wheeling was the first city wherein opposition was encountered. Wilson & Rankin's Minstrels were billed at the Opera House, the Field Company at the Grand Opera House. When the Wilson & Rankin party started on their parade, the other company followed in their wake. Wilson shouted to the bystanders in front of the McClure House, "War! War!"

This opposition embittered George Wilson and for years the two companies waged a relentless war, which never ceased until Mr. Wilson disbanded his company. Carl Rankin, who was a Columbus boy and an old friend of Alfred's called on Alfred. He advised that he was dissatisfied with his surroundings and a tentative partnership agreement was entered into for the next season. However, the arrangements went no further as Mr. Rankin's health failed him rapidly and it was not long until minstrelsy lost one of the most versatile performers that ever adorned it.

Since the conversation overheard in Ashland, Alfred had not spoken to the manager of the musical act. The telegraph wires were carrying messages daily seeking an act to take the place of the dissatisfied one. At Zanesville, just before the matinee, (Zanesville was the first city wherein the Al. G. Field Minstrels appeared in a matinee), Alfred called the manager of the musical act to his dressing room.

"Mr. Turner, it has come to me that you intended leaving this company. Therefore, I have engaged an act to take your place; you can leave after tonight's performance, or as soon thereafter as it suits your convenience."

"Why, Mr. Field, I did not intend to leave your company. Who so advised you? I never told anyone I intended leaving."

"Now Bob, don't deny it. I heard you say you were going to leave the company, that you had no confidence in the stability of the enterprise. Your talk came at a time when I was feeling pretty blue and it hurt. Judging from your talk you are an undesirable man to have around and I certainly am glad to dispense with your services."

The man threatened legal proceedings. Alfred was obdurate. The man was tendered his salary. He refused to sign a receipt. Alfred ordered the treasurer to give him his money without his signature to a receipt. The other two members of the act protested vigorously. They presented their case in this manner: "We were working for Bob. He owned the act. We like the show; we like you. It's the middle of the season. We are liable to be idle for months. We don't think we should be discharged for the threats of Bob. We can't control his mouth. Mr. Field, if you discharge every performer who indulges in idle talk, you won't have anybody around you."

"Boys, I do not propose to discharge anyone for idle talk but I won't keep a traitor in this camp. You remain with the company. I will pay you the same salary you have been receiving just to play in the band and sit in the first part."

With varying success the first season progressed. But never a salary day that the "white specter" did not perambulate. Every obligation met promptly, a few folks began to take notice of the new show, persons who had held their faces the other way. The manager was forced to practice the greatest economy. There was a few weeks around Christmas time when his shoes leaked. After Christmas he purchased two pair of shoes, preparing for future contingencies. Smallpox was raging through Minnesota and Wisconsin, many cities were quarantined. At LaCrosse, Winona, Rochester and Eau Claire, the people would not go to the theatre; hence, the show was a big loser. At Hudson, Wis., a big lumber camp in those days, the gross receipts were the least the company ever played to—just sixteen dollars—a few cents less than the receipts of Alfred's first show in Redstone School-house. Alfred requested the manager of the Opera House to dismiss the audience. The manager refused to listen to the proposition. He contended it was Saturday night, and that many would drop in. They failed to drop in or to be pushed in. However, Alfred has always felt grateful to that manager. No audience was ever dismissed by the Al. G. Field Greater Minstrels in all the years of their existence, although an engagement in Atlanta, Ga., was curtailed.

The company opened to an over-flowing house. The advance sale for the remainder of the engagement was gratifying. Henry Grady, the famous journalist and orator, after delivering a speech that electrified not only the Boston audience that listened to it, but the nation, had died. Atlanta and the entire south was stricken with sorrow. The minstrel manager was intimately acquainted with Mr. Grady. Mr. Grady was one of the promoters of the Piedmont Exposition. Peter Sells was one of Mr. Grady's admirers, and as a courtesy to him had loaned the exposition a flock of ostriches; which was one of the attractive features of that most memorable exposition. Alfred was entrusted with the details pertaining to the transaction. Mr. Grady had been very courteous to Alfred. There never was a man who knew Henry Grady that did not admire his charming personality. Therefore, when Mr. De Give suggested the engagement of the minstrels end and the theatre be closed out of respect to the memory of Mr. Grady, Alfred promptly acquiesced.

The closing of this engagement was a sacrifice that Alfred felt greatly at the time. It meant pecuniary loss that was embarrassing to him, yet there never was a moment he regretted his action.

It was the beginning of friendships that have endured all the years since. Not only the success attending his annual visits to Atlanta, but the associations are of that pleasant character that make a stranger feel he is in the home of his friends.

Capt. Forrest Adair, one of Atlanta's foremost citizens, journeys each year to the annual banquets celebrating the birthday of the Al. G. Field Greater Minstrels. He is as well known and as greatly respected by every member of the organization as by Alfred.

The first season the profits were not great, although on the right side of the ledger. The opposition of family and friends continued. "Abandon the minstrels, go back to a salary." Alfred was considered bull headed, contrary, without judgment, etc. However, nothing swerved him. He announced to all he would continue in the minstrel business.

George Knott, (Doc.) and Gov. Campbell were the agents of the Al. G. Field Minstrels the first season. Gov. Campbell's folks once resided in Woodville. The citizens united in their endeavors to have him bring his minstrels to the town. There had never been a minstrel entertainment presented in the town previously and none since. The hotel man had undertaken the building of a hall. All sorts of inducements were held out in the letter received by Alfred. Terms were satisfactorily arranged, a date scheduled and the minstrels billed to appear in Woodville.

A narrow-gauge railroad, a train with a disabled engine and a disgusted minstrel troupe arrived at 3 p. m., six hours late. Charles Sweeny, the stage manager, came swiftly into the dining room, leaning over Alfred, he whispered: "There's no stage, no scenery, no seats. Just a bare hall. No reserved sale. There's—" only thus far did Sweeny get in his enumeration of his troubles until Alfred was searching for the manager. He hurriedly inquired of the hotel man as he left the dining room, without his dinner, as to the place of business of the manager of the theater. The hotel man gazed at him in blank surprise. Alfred, in his impatience, did not await an answer. Rushing up the principal street of the village, he inquired of several persons as to where he could locate the manager of the theater. Finally the postmaster, in answer to his impatient questions, said: "You will not find any particular manager as he ain't got to that yet. He's just built a room and thar's nuthin' in it. He's at the hotel down yonder." It began to dawn upon Alfred that the landlord of the hotel was the man he was looking for.

"Lord, young man. If I'd known you was lookin' for me, I'd told you quicker, who I was. I'm no theater manager."

"But you wrote me you had a theater. I am here with my company ready to give a performance and you have neither stage nor scenery in your hall. How do you expect me to put the show on?"

"Why! don't you carry your stage and scenery?" the man asked, in candid surprise.

"Certainly not. And you should know it. You haven't even got a seat sale on."

The hotel man began to get excited. "What the hell have I got to do with selling tickets? If you don't carry your own tickets you're a purty cheap concern. I don't propose to be brow-beaten by you. If you don't like the place the road runs both ways out of it." And he walked away from the minstrel man in high dudgeon.

Seats were borrowed from the Court House, the Methodist Church, the hotel, anywhere they could be secured. A half dozen carpenters were working on the improvised stage until the minute the curtain went up. The dining room of the hotel was converted into a dressing room. After supper was served the minstrel trunks were placed in the dining room. Pickles, crackers, ginger snaps, etc., were all in place on the table for an early morning breakfast. The minstrels ate the tables bare, ransacked cupboards and sideboards in kitchen and dining room, feasting and frolicking during the performance.

The bar adjoined the dining room. The minstrels blackened and in their stage attire, they said to the peg-legged barkeeper: "These are on me; I've got on my other clothes; I'll settle after the show."

The dressing, or dining room, was about twenty yards from the stage of the hall. As there was no stage door, (only a front door in the hall), the minstrel men were obliged to enter by a window. The sash taken out, leaned against the wall. In the piano chorus of a most pathetic ballad, both window sashes fell over. The crashing glass brought the entire audience to their feet. The hall owner stepped over the low footlights onto the stage, brushing the semi-circle of surprised minstrels to one side. Disappearing behind the curtain, he reappeared in an instant, bearing in either hand a window sash with shattered bits of glass sticking here and there. Crossing the stage, at the instant the interlocutor announced the singing of the reigning song success, "There's a Light in the Window for You," placing the sash in front of the stage, he seated himself.

The stage, or platform, was very low. The sash stuck up several inches above the footlights. Harry Bulger, in one of his dances purposely kicked them over again. Down they fell among the musicians. Mr. Hall-owner was again to the rescue, this time triumphantly bearing the sash to the rear of the hall.

Alfred looked after the front of the house as well as his stage work. Remaining at the door until he had barely time to make up, he requested the hall owner to take tickets until he returned, and not to permit any to enter without tickets.

The hall man promised not to permit any to enter without tickets. Alfred sang a song, "Hello, Baby, Here's Your Daddy," the title of it. The dozen end men, during the chorus, drew from under their chairs large dolls with blackened faces. Each burlesqued a person handling a baby awkwardly. As Alfred took his seat his eyes went anxiously to the door. It was closed. No one entered all the while he was on the stage. At the end of the baby song, it was customary for Alfred to cast a big ugly doll, with the words "Here's Your Daddy," into the audience. One of the company dudishly attired was seated in the audience to catch the doll, leave the house, pretending to be greatly embarrassed. The audience usually howled. The baby was flung in the direction of the member of the company. Unfortunately, it had to pass over the head of the manager of the hall. Jumping up, reaching into the air much as an expert baseball player does in pulling down a hot one, he pulled the baby down. Holding it upside down, he flung it towards Alfred. Anxious to save the scene, with all his force Alfred flung it towards the young man of the company, who stood waiting to play his part. But again the hall man jumped between and caught the baby. By one foot he swung it about his head a couple of times; the head and arms of the rag doll flew towards Alfred, striking the stage at his feet. The man holding the legs and all that part of the baby below the belt, waved it aloft. Meanwhile the audience was encouraging him with shouts of approval.

Concluding his stage work, hastening towards the door, not even delaying to change his costume or remove the black from his face, he vigorously beckoned the hall man to him. Walking towards the door, Alfred poured forth a torrent of peevish abuse:

"Why, you wrote me all sorts of letters that people were crazy mad for a minstrel show and there's not fifty dollars in the house."

The landlord doubted this statement. "Not fifty dollars in the house, huh? Why, there's men in thar," and he jerked his head towards the audience, "there's men in thar with three hundred dollars in thar pockets right now. Don't you think you're in a poverty-struck place. Our people have all got money." Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, jingling keys and coins.

"I mean the tickets do not represent fifty dollars so far. I'm in good and deep and you are the cause of it."

"I find nothing to do business with. I ask you as a last request to watch the door for me. You leave the door and every jay will walk in."

"Oh no, they won't," interrupted Mr. Hall-man. "They won't get in this hall without paying."

He Waved the Key

"Why, what in thunder is to hinder them? The whole town could walk in without paying one cent."

"I'll be durned if they could," ejaculated Mr. Hall-man, and he waved the key of the door triumphantly at Alfred. The man had actually locked the door. When opened, there were some dozen seeking admission. Many left in disgust.

There was a bill for lights of glass, and numerous drinks at the bar presented to Alfred. The glass he settled for, informing the hotel man he did not pay bar-bills. The barkeeper could not recognize any one of the performers in their street attire.

He assured Alfred "the hull pack of niggers with you jus' drank and drank and only a few paid. The bill don't amount to much, so far as enny one of the men is concerned; but one gal, one nigger gal, jus' treated right and left. If we could get what she owes, I'd let the rest go." The barkeeper referred to Harry Bulger.

Alfred's great desire was to present his minstrel show in his old home town, Brownsville. The stage in Jeffries' Hall was too small to accommodate the minstrels. Therefore, one of Alfred's boyhood friends, Levi Waggoner, arranged to play the minstrels in the skating rink. Levi was one of the boys who had stood by the old town through all its changes and become one of its substantial citizens. Awake to every business opportunity, he had not only seated the floor space of the rink but builded circus seats against the rear wall.

Alfred was not in the old town an hour until it became imperative that he should seek protection from his friends. He delegated one of the company, one who was noted for his staying qualities, to represent him. Every man met, no matter how old, claimed to be a schoolboy friend of Alfred's. "There goes another old friend of Alf's" became a by-word long before night.

"Spider" Pomeroy, six feet six then, when a boy, (he has grown some since), celebrated Alfred's return more uproariously than any one person in the town. Alfred supplied him with a ticket early in the morning. By noon "Spider" had obtained six tickets, always claiming he had lost the other one. When the doors opened, "Spider" ran over the small boys in his way, brushed the ticket taker aside, entering without a ticket he perched himself on the top of Lee Wagoner's improvised circus seats, his legs doubled up until his knees stuck up on either side above his head like a grasshopper.

He sat through the first part. The minstrel with the staying qualities was laboring with a monologue. "Spider", after his strenuous day, was sleeping off his exuberance. At the dullest part in the monologist's offering, "Spider" let go all holds. The skating rink was built on piles, over the river's bank. One walking on the floor, their footsteps awakened echoes. When "Spider" hit that floor—and he hit it with all his frame—legs, arms, feet and head, all at one time, it sounded as if the building had collapsed. All were on their feet looking towards the back of the rink. As "Spider" lit, the monologist shouted: "There goes another old friend of Alf's." It came in pat. The audience grasped it and the monologist established a reputation for originality. "There goes another old friend of Alf's" is a common saying in Brownsville until this day.

The property man that first season was a German, new in the minstrel game. He is now a capitalist and probably would not relish the disclosing of his name.

Chas. Sweeny, the stage manager, was a stickler for realism. In the burlesque of "The Lime Kiln Club," one climax was the sound of a cat fight on the roof. The cats were supposed to fall through the skylight. Every member of the lodge was supposed to have his dog with him—colored people are fond of dogs. When the cats fall into the lodge room, every dog goes after them. Fake, or dummy cats were prepared for the scene and used during rehearsals. The first night Sweeny ordered Gus, the property man, to procure two live cats. Gus, stationed on a very high step-ladder in the wings, at the cue was to throw the cats on the stage. Gus was heard to remark: "You all better hurry or send some von to manage one of dese cats." The cat fight was heard on the roof. The glass in the skylight was heard to break. The cats were, with great difficulty, flung by Gus. They clawed and held onto him. The long step-ladder was rocking like a slender tree in a gale. One cat left the hands of Gus, alighting with all four feet on Sweeny's neck, with a spring that sent it out over the heads of the orchestra to the fourth or fifth row in the parquet. The cat left its marks on Sweeny's neck and the scars are there today as plain as twenty-seven years ago. As Gus flung the second cat the exertion was too much for him. He followed on the step-ladder, overturning Brother Gardner and the stove. Three dogs pounced upon Gus as he rolled over and over on the floor. Three of the largest dogs had followed the first cat over the heads of the orchestra, and a stampede of the audience was in progress, the dogs and cats under the feet of men and women, who were jumping on chairs or rushing towards the exits. The curtain went down without the humorous dialogue that usually terminated the scene.

"Mr. President: I moves you, sir, dat no member ob dis club hyaraftuh be admitted wid more'n three dogs."

Alfred put his shoulder to the wheel wherever and whenever a push or a pull was required. Night after night, he assisted the stage hands in hustling effects from the theatre to the train. On one occasion the train was scheduled to leave in a very short time after the curtain fell. Alfred, without changing his stage clothes, busied himself assisting the stage hands. Gus, the property man, flung Alfred's clothing into his trunk, not observing they were his street apparel instead of stage costumes. The trunk was sent to the depot. When Alfred prepared to follow he was minus everything except a large pair of shoes, thin pants, long stockings and undershirt. There was no time to be lost; grabbing up a large piece of carpet, Alfred wound it around himself and started for the depot on a run.

Doc Quigley, Arthur Rigby and several of the company stationed themselves along his route to the depot, hiding in the shadows of doorways. One after another shouted: "Good-bye, Al, good-bye old boy. You've got the best show ever. Come back again. Your show's great."

"Good-bye Al, Old Boy"

"All right boys, good-bye. I'll be with you next season," shouted the hustling minstrel as he sped for the train. Alfred was completely deceived. He imagined the compliments were coming from the towns-people.

The German property man, whose mistake was responsible for Alfred's grotesque appearance, was stationed by the jokers behind a fence near the depot. As Alfred hove in sight with the old rag carpet flapping around his form, Gus shouted: "Goot bye, Mr. Fieldt. Goot luck. Your show iz great. Kum unt see us agen. I hope your show will be here nexdt season."

"It will be, but you won't be with it, you dutch son of a gun." Alfred had recognized the voice.

---

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR]

Into the city during the day,
Back to the country at eventide,
Courting the charm of the simple way,
Casting the tumult of greed aside.

"He is the happiest man who best appreciates his happiness. Happiness comes to him who does not seek it."

"Well, you've got there. I was opposed to your goin' into the minstrel business. It's not good to argue agin anything a young man sets his mind on. I figured if you got knocked out, you'd be able to come back agin. I'd rather seed you in the circus business, but say, boy, if this show of yours ain't a Jim Dandy. Are you making any money?"

"Well, I have made money, Uncle Henry, but I'm investing it in my business as fast as I earn it. You see the minstrel business is changing. The basis of minstrelsy will always be that which it is and has been, but you can't hand them the same things they've been accepting the past forty years and expect them to enjoy and buy it. The farce comedy, the musical show are virtually minstrel shows. Based upon music and dancing, they produce about the same stuff the minstrels do."

"Well Alfred, we hear a great deal about the old black-face minstrels. Some people say they like them best."

"That's true, Uncle Henry. You can't gainsay it. Some people like the old-fashioned cooking the best. But the public, the majority demand something different. Even if they eat the same sort of food they ate when younger, they demand it be served differently. Let me call your attention to this fact: Every manager that has endeavored to present an old-time, black-face minstrel show in late years has failed. The old-time minstrel show, like the one-ring circus, is pleasant to dream of, pleasant to talk of, but not profitable to present. Two friends were responsible for my decision to put on a simon-pure, old-time minstrel show. I engaged the best talent procurable, costumed the show in conformity with the ideas of my friends. It was the least profitable of any season since my first year; or it would have been had I continued. I changed my entire show in the middle of the season, going back to the black-face comedians, white-face singers.

"The minstrels in all climes have sung their songs of love and war. Even in the days of the ancients there were minstrels who sang the news of the times to the gaping multitudes in the streets and market places. In fact, David, with his harp of a thousand strings, whose voice charmed King Saul and his court, was the first minstrel. I can fully understand why a minstrel, an American minstrel, singing a plantation melody to his dusky dulcinea, should have a blackened face, but why a man blackened as a negro should sing of 'My Sister's Golden Hair,' or 'Mother's Eyes of Blue,' is too incongruous for even argument's sake."

David, the First Minstrel

"Well, Alfred, how is it the other managers do not adopt the style of your entertainment."

"Uncle Henry, I am not my brother's keeper. I had opposition with one of those so-called old time minstrel shows a short time ago. Our company was making money every night. They were barely paying expenses. And yet the greater part of their press work was devoted to informing the public that we were not genuine minstrels, our singers wore white wigs, flesh colored stockings and satin suits. They were really advertising one of the attractions of our exhibition. We copied that notice and had it sent broadcast over the sections where the companies conflicted. I watched the press closely and but one paper that came under my observation endorsed their idea."

"Now, Alfred, let me tell you something. I've had all I wanted to eat and drink; I've worn good clothes; I've helped the poor; I've kept my family right; and I've seen enough of this world to convince me the only way to have money to burn is not to burn it. To have money to spend when you are old, is to save it while you're young. I was so poor when I was young, I had my lesson. Say, son, it's a sad thing to be poor when you're young, not wanted in your brother's home. But it's dreadful to be poor when you are old and not wanted anywhere. You can't make a living. You are dependent upon charity. Now don't fool yourself and say with your income you can't save. If you can live you can save. George M. Pullman, Marshall Field, John D. Rockefeller, and a thousand others began saving on less than your income. Now, Alfred, don't think because the fool in your business has spent money recklessly, don't think that's an excuse for you to spend. I know minstrel people. I know them backwards. Don't be like them. The only things to do in this world, day after day, are the things you ought to do. You can't do too much for others, but don't depend upon them to do for you. A poor, old man is the saddest sight on earth."

"It's true I felt mighty sore that my folks threw me on the world so young. But you bet I am proud of the fact that I can buy and sell the whole kit of them. I help them, I give them, I don't begrudge it to them; but, while I can't entirely forget the bitterness of those boyhood days, I can't help but feel a bit proud that I am independent of them in my old days. And to hear some of them talk, you'd think they made me. Well, they did, but they didn't intend to. While they were sitting around praying for prosperity, I was sweating. Sweating, it's a good thing. It takes all the bad diseases out of you and a good deal of the cussedness. Say, Alfred, you never knowed a skin-flint that sweat. Stingy men never sweat. I admire all good people but I would rather see a man give another a meal, than talk over his victuals and eat them alone when he knows there's someone next door hungry. Did you ever notice when a man thinks he's a genius he lets his hair grow long and when a woman gets out of her place, to be something she oughtn't to be, she cuts her hair short. Every crank puts some kind of a brand on themselves. You don't have to talk to them to find out what they are.

"I sold whiskey when I was in the wholesale grocery business. Everybody in my line sold it. You remember the best stores in Columbus sold it. You couldn't hold a first-class trade if you didn't sell it. I never sold it to people who had no shoes. I never sold it to young men nor to old men in their dotage. There was never preacher came to me to talk religion or anything else while I was selling whiskey. But as soon as I sold out the whiskey business, they began runnin' after me. One of them kept a-comin' and a-comin'. He kept tellin' me how to live, how to spend the rest of my days. Get a library. A library was the greatest thing a man could have. It kept your mind at rest; you could seek refuge in your library at any time when in trouble. I promised him to get a library. I had one built expressly. I had two barrels of Old Crow whiskey that I kept when I sold the store. I filled a sufficient number of quart bottles to fill the shelves of the library, labeled the bottles, and waited for the next visit of the gentleman who induced me to invest in a library. He congratulated me on taking his advice. I told him I never had any learning to speak of; when I should have been at school I had to be at work; perhaps I should have consulted him about stocking the library. He expressed a desire to examine it. When I threw the doors open and the rows of bottles of Old Crow came into his view, he never flinched. I told Jim if he fainted to be handy with a pail of water. But he never backed off. He put his glasses on his nose, read the labels and 'lowed while my library was large it was not greatly diversified. Thereafter the good man was more deeply interested in me than ever before. At first he called once a day. It was not long until he called three times a day regularly."

Uncle Henry's Library

Jim describes the scene thusly: "Uncle Henry, lolling in the big, easy chair, sleepily. Enter the gentleman who recommended the library. 'Good morning, Brother Hunt, I hope you are feeling well'; Uncle Henry, with eyes half-closed, never waited to hear more. He languidly motioned towards the sideboard, closed his eyes, looked the other way. Uncle Henry's idea of a gentleman was one who turned his back while you were pouring out your liquor."

Uncle Henry was known to every showman in America. He maintained a field whereon the circuses pitched their tents. He owned the billboards. No circus visited Burlington that did not find him an interested friend.

I have heard that Uncle Henry could drive a good bargain in a trade. I never knew him as a buyer or a seller. I only knew him as one who knew how to give. I only knew him as one who found it more blessed to give than receive.

His qualities of good more than overbalanced his imperfections. His was a character that left its impress on the community in which he was known. He was loved by those who were welcomed in his hospitable home. There have been men of more renown than the hardy old blacksmith, who, from a barefooted boy made his way without education or friends, and that he was influenced in his feelings by his early hardships was only the man that was in him, over-balancing the better nature of one who, when a friend was a friend, who, when against you, was always in the open. He was as honest in his dislikes as he was in his admirations.

When the sands of his life were ebbing fast on that Sunday afternoon in midsummer, the last of earth, the last sounds that fell upon the ears of Uncle Henry were the rumbling of the wheels of a circus moving over the paved streets from the train to the show grounds.

---

They have got a newspaper fixed and the worst roast ever read published today. Mailed copy. If you want a good lawyer, advise.

Joe Kaine.

Alfred read and re-read this telegram. He was having the most strenuous opposition of his business career, fighting one of the most unprincipled of men, the head of a company that had attained great popularity although on the decline at the time, and soon thereafter went the way of all such concerns—those of the minstrel kind at least. It was known to Alfred that the opposition had engaged a noted press agent and that this agent had been on the route of Alfred's company. Alfred answered the telegram, requesting a synopsis of the article. It was at the time the notorious Hatfield gang of West Virginia, were the subjects of unusual newspaper exaggeration. The write-up that had stirred Kaine was in substance:

"PROMINENT MINSTREL MAN'S REAL NAME LEADS TO CONJECTURE HE WAS

ONCE ONE OF THE NOTORIOUS HATFIELD GANG. DOUBTS AS TO

HIS BRAVING THE LAWS OF WEST VIRGINIA.

"It is reported though his company is advertised, it will not appear in any of the cities in this state. The depredations of the notorious Hatfield family has made the name feared wherever it is known. Officers have been on their track for years. The majority of the desperate family seem to be secure in the fastnesses of their mountain hiding places. So completely terrorized are the mountaineers by this family that no arrests have been made of any of the gang lately. However, should the member of the family now masquerading under an assumed name enter the state he will be arrested on sight and made to stand trial for past deeds of the family. However, it is not believed that the man will run the risk of entering the state. It is rumored he is on his way to Canada."

Kaine supplemented his first telegram with a second one advising Alfred that the evening paper would publish any statement he telegraphed, and to make the denial strong.

Alfred wired him:

Engage counsel who will answer for me. I am prepared to give bond in any amount.

Al. G. Field.

He further telegraphed "Devil Anse" Hatfield and several others of the family:

Will be there. Meet me on arrival.

Another telegram read:

Get this in newspapers, but not as coming from me.

Another telegram went forward later as a news item:

"It is reported here that a dozen armed men from Kentucky and West Virginia are secreted on the cars of the Al. G. Field Minstrels, to resist arrest of one of their number who is reported with the minstrels."

Of course all this was false. When the minstrel troupe arrived, hundreds were at the depot. Alfred was one of the first to leave the train. The officers and many others were aware of the falsity of the published statement, but hundreds were deceived by the sensational reports.

The owner of the paper wherein the reports originated assured Alfred they had been imposed upon and the columns of the paper were open to anything he might dictate for publication. Introducing Alfred to his city editor, the owner of the paper remarked: "I have requested Mr. Field to prepare a statement for publication. We want to do what is right by him."

The matter was submitted to the editor. He reminded Alfred that it did not answer the article published by them but was a boost for his minstrels.

Alfred replied: "I realize the matter published was false, but the dear public has gained the idea that I am a desperado. They will only remember this a day or two. If I endeavor to contradict the published reports, it will keep it in their minds. This matter I submit will benefit me. A denial such as you have in mind will not do me any good."

While this advertising was not the sort Alfred desired, he was bound to make the most of it. The theatres were packed to their capacity during the three or four weeks the opposition worked the press with the silly matter; although many newspapers treated it as a joke. For a few weeks Alfred was a living curiosity, pointed out by some as a desperado to be shunned, sought by others to be idolized. Surely, human nature is past understanding.

It is dangerous to try to blacken the character of your opponent as it invariably places one's own under the spotlight and they'll find spots you were sure were never visible.

---

Ed Boggs, now Secretary to the Governor of the State, was at the time engaged in the drug business and managed the Opera House in Charleston, W. Va. The gross receipts were the largest in the history of the opera house. Alfred carried his share of the money in a satchel after the show. Boggs accompanied him to the ferry. There was no bridge spanning the river in those days. Boggs' store was on the corner of Water Street near the ferry landing. The ferry boat was on the opposite side. Boggs suggested they step into the drug store and smoke a cigar until the boat returned. Alfred, arriving at his private car—the wife was a visitor—the first question propounded was: "Where have you been to this hour of the night? Where's your satchel?" Alfred nearly fainted. He rushed out on the platform of the car. The ferry boat had left on the last trip of the night. Alfred was not clear in his mind as to where he had left the satchel, whether in the drug store or on the boat. He floundered along the banks of the river, endeavoring to locate a skiff that he might recross the river. His fears were that he had left the satchel on the forecastle of the ferry boat where he stood smoking while crossing the river.

The Kanawha is a narrow stream as it flows by Charleston, yet it seemed an ocean that night. Alfred's slumbers were neither lengthy nor soothing. One hour previous to the scheduled time of the ferry boat's arrival on her first trip of the morning, he stood on the shore gazing across the river. When the boat was within four feet of her dock, Alfred leaped aboard, and began inquiries. The captain said: "I was at the wheel. If you left your money on the boat you might as well stay on this side. There was a rough crowd aboard after the show. That money's split up and partly drunk up by this time." Mr. Boggs had not arrived. The clerk searched the drug store. He urged the minstrel man to assist in exploring the mysterious recesses behind the counters. No satchel was found. Mr. Boggs was late coming to the store. "He always gets here before this," the clerk asserted. Alfred could not restrain himself longer. He fairly ran to the residence of Mr. Boggs. The servant brought the message: "Mr. Boggs was not well this morning. He would probably not go to the store until afternoon."

"Jumping Jupiter, Holy Moses," and other expressions were suppressed by the highly wrought-up minstrel, as he stood on the doorstep. Say to Mr. Boggs: "Mr. Field must see him, if only for a moment. Must see him at once."

"Howdy, Al, I thought you were on your way to Huntington."

"No, our train does not leave until eight-thirty. I only have twenty-five minutes. Are you going to the store?" Alfred tried to look unconcerned as he asked the question: "Did I leave my satchel in your drug store last night? I feel sure I did."

Boggs gazed at him in blank amazement. "Your satchel with all that money in it? You don't mean to tell me you left that satchel somewhere and are not certain where?"

"Oh, I am pretty certain I left it in your store."

"Well, if you left the satchel in my drug store it is there yet."

"I am pretty sure I did."

"But you're not certain," persisted Boggs.

After every corner and nook of the store had been searched, Alfred went behind the counters. Again he looked under them. Boggs did not seem to be greatly interested in the search. He seated himself at a desk as Alfred rose from his knees, from exploring a dark corner, and inquired in an unconcerned tone, "Find it?" Alfred was irritated. He did not reply. The ferry boat whistle sounded. The bell was tapping. Alfred looked at Boggs. He was still at the desk.

"Good-bye, I'm going. I guess the Hatfields haven't exclusive privileges in West Virginia. I think I'll join them to get even. I either left that satchel in this drug store or on that boat. That's a cinch."

Boggs raised his eyes. "Well, if you only knew where you left your satchel you'd have a better chance to recover it."

"Well, I'm going," replied Alfred, moving towards the door.

"Good-bye," Boggs shouted. Alfred was on the front steps. "Hold on," Boggs yelled, "I'll go over the river with you." Alfred was looking across the river. Boggs was by his side. They had walked several yards towards the ferry boat. Boggs inquired as to what excuse he would make to his wife. Alfred turned his head. Boggs was carrying the satchel in his hand farthest from Alfred. As the latter reached for the grip, Boggs laughed as he pulled away, saying, "I won't trust you with it."

Boggs discovered the satchel after Alfred left the drug store. He awaited the return of the ferry boat and endeavored to have the Captain make an extra trip to relieve Alfred's suspense. The Captain refused, saying: "If a man is that careless with money, he ought to worry."

---

In the early days of Alfred's minstrel career he became acquainted with Dan D. Emmett, the originator of American Minstrelsy (the First Part). Emmett was living in Chicago at that time.

Dan Emmett

Years afterward Alfred learned that Mr. Emmett was living in retirement in his old home, Mount Vernon, Ohio. He called on the aged minstrel. Mr. Emmett pleaded that he be permitted to accompany the minstrels on a farewell tour. His request was granted. At the time there was no intention of advertising Emmett. He was simply to accompany the troupe as a guest of Mr. Field.

About this time several persons were claiming the song "Dixie." Alfred furnished the New York Herald with irrefutable proof that to Emmett belonged the honor. That paper sent a man from New York City. He spent several days at the home of Emmett. The feature story and the subsequent proofs published by Col. Cunningham, editor of the Confederate Veteran, forever settled the controversy as to the authorship of Dixie.

Emmett's memory, in his last years, as to dates was defective. The story of Dixie was often related to Alfred by Emmett and, from other information, Alfred is of the opinion that Dixie was sung in the south long before its New York production. Emmett was the musical director of Bryants' Minstrels. Dan Bryant desired a walk-around song and dance. Emmett, on Saturday night was commissioned to have this number ready for Monday night's performance. He labored all day Sunday. Dixie was produced on Monday night and made an instantaneous hit. This is the accepted story as to the production of "Dixie."

It is well known to all of Emmett's intimates that he was a slow study and a very indifferent reader but once he memorized music, he required no notes thereafter. It is not probable Emmett turned out Dixie in one day or the company learned and produced the song with only one rehearsal. All minstrel people admit this.

Dixie was produced in New York in 1859. Prof. Arnold, of Memphis, (of Montgomery, Ala., then), claims that Emmett visited Montgomery in January, 1859, and sang Dixie, the words, however, a little different from those used in New York later. In presence of Mr. Field, Prof. Arnold called Emmett's attention to this. Emmett's reply was that the air of Dixie—the melody—had been played by him for a year prior to his writing the words of the song.

It is Alfred's opinion that Emmett first sang the song in the south else how could it in those days become so suddenly popular. It is an authenticated fact that the troops from Alabama first sang Dixie as a war song of the South. There are gentlemen living in both Eufala and Montgomery who assert that Dixie was sung in those cities early in 1859 and that it attained great popularity.

However, the memory of Emmett will be preserved to future generations as the author of a song the common people love to sing.

---

"I have bought a farm."

The wife looked incredulous. The past four years Alfred had optioned as many different farms, always dissuaded by the wife to give them up. In fact, the wife did not show the husband's enthusiasm as to the bucolic life.

"I've bought a farm: Bienville, a part of the old Goodrich tract ceded to that family by the government for services in the Revolutionary War, opposite 'high banks' on the Olentangy River, where the ruins of the old fort are. It is a place of historic interest. The river, the best bass stream in Ohio, skirts the east side of the farm. There's a lovely brook running through the farm, and the largest virgin forest in the county. Why, the timber in that woods will sell for more than I paid for the whole farm. But I will not cut a single tree down, only an occasional shell-bark hickory tree to smoke our meat. Uncle Jake always smoked his meat with hickory wood and he cured the finest meat in Fayette County, generally a little too salty; we must look out for that."

"The bottom land is a farm in itself. There are two orchards, an old one and a young one. The old one is about run out and I'll cut it down when the young one comes in. The wood will be fine to burn. Dry apple wood makes the hottest fire."

"Dried apples? What are you talking about—burning dried apples?"

But Alfred was not to be interrupted. "The hill land is not so good but I'll bring that up. I've bought a book on Liming Land. I won't have a great deal of stock to begin with. It's my intention to begin with a few of each species and breed up, that's the way Doctor Hartman does.

"The hill land is not productive now and the bottom land will have to supply the farm until we get the hills tillable. There's only one thing that troubles me. The bottoms overflow every time the river rises. As you know, the Olentangy rises every time it rains."

"Well, for Heaven's sake, you haven't bought a farm like that, have you? Now, Al, you are just like your father. Your mother often told me he could make money but always had a plan to spend it and his investments always proved failures. Why don't you let this farm business go? You've got enough on your hands without a farm."

Alfred never noticed the interruption.

"Chickens are very profitable. Poultry raising is one of the most profitable things about a farm, and the average farmer does not give his chickens any attention. I expect you to look after the chicken end of the farm. All the profits will be yours."

Even this liberal offer did not interest the wife greatly.

"The first thing I am going to do is to build a dyke or levee along the river bank to protect the bottoms from overflows. This must be done this winter. Mr. Monsarrat is at work on one on his place. He went to the expense of hiring regular dyke-builders, civil engineers and all that sort of thing. I'll just hire farmers and their teams. I've got onto a man that built all the dykes down toward Chillicothe. He knows just how to construct them. I'll hire him to superintend the work. Of course, I'll be on the ground all the time to look after the details."

"When will you have time to attend to matters of that kind? Now, Al, you're just hatching up a lot of trouble for us. Why don't you rest? You have been working all these years to lay by a few dollars and now you are contriving to spend them. We know nothing of farming. We will be worried to death."

"Now don't get excited, Tillie. Hold your horses. I've thought the whole matter out. Now listen to me. You can't farm in winter, can you?" and Alfred waited for his wife to answer. The wife deigned no reply; she either considered the question too deep or too silly. Alfred answered his own question: "No, you can't farm in winter. This is November. I've fixed it that by the time we are ready to farm we will be all prepared. I've subscribed for three farm journals, a poultry paper and a dairying book. The farm journals are published in New York, Los Angeles and Denver. This will educate us up to farming methods in all sections. What they don't know in one section, we will learn from another. You leave it all to me. Country life will make another woman out of you and Pearl will like it. It will be good for you all. It's the dream of my life realized and I do hope you will enter into my plans and be the help you have always been. I'm going to have a horse and phaeton for your exclusive use. I don't want you to do anything. Just sort of look over things. You need not read the farm journals unless you are interested. You read up on poultry and the dairy. They go together. All I'll ask you to do is to look after those two things, the poultry and the dairy. I'll take care of the farming."

Bob Brown, (no relation to Bill Brown), editor of the Louisville Times, one of Alfred's warmest friends, published a feature article, a brief history of Alfred's career, touching on his newspaper experiences, however, omitting the cow-doctor experience. The article concluded with a lengthy write-up of Alfred as a farmer. The paper was carried in triumph and read to Mrs. Field and Pearl. Bob predicted the success for Alfred in farming that he had attained in minstrelsy. Several illustrations in Bob's write-up exhibited Alfred in farmer's garb, feeding cattle, sheep and hogs out of his hand.

The wife observed: "Why, you haven't got sheep, hogs or cows as yet; have you imposed upon Mr. Brown?"

"No, certainly not. Bob is an up-to-date newspaper man. Newspapers that wait to print things as they are, get left. Newspapers that print things as they are to be, are the live, up-to-date, always read journals. Bob knows I'll have things just as he represents them."

Bob Brown's write-up was greatly appreciated by Alfred even after Emmett Logan informed him that Bob had written him confidentially that he, Alfred, had turned farmer, but he did not know what for, as he felt certain Alfred could not plant his feet in the road and raise dust; in fact, he did not think Alfred could raise a parasol.

Alfred was advised that a club, of which he was an honorary member, would entertain him—that it would be a farmer's night. Alfred well knew there would be great fun at the expense of the farmer. He would be the butt of all the jokes the busy brains of a dozen or more keen wits could devise. Therefore, he studied for days that he might in a humorous way parry the jibes. Nothing humorous in connection with the farm could be evolved from his brain. He was too ambitious, too enthusiastic a farmer to ridicule any phase of his newly adopted calling.

Therefore, when the chairman concluded his introduction in these words: "And now, gentlemen, we have a farmer as our guest here tonight. It has been the plaint of the farmer from time out of mind that he had not representation; that he had not voice in affairs that had to do with his vocation. The newly made clod-hopper is respectfully informed that he can air his grievances to the fullest extent and that, unlike others, we will not pass resolutions of acquiescence in his views and then repudiate them. We will file them in our archives as a memento of the fact that another good man has gone wrong. Alfred, it is the fear of all your friends in this club that the minstrel show will not make enough money to run the farm."

Alfred as a Farmer

Alfred replied to the introduction:

"Gentlemen, the introduction honors me; to be a farmer has been the dream of my life. Beginning life on a farm, I ask no more pleasant ending than to live the last days of my earthly time on a farm.

"The facetious remarks of the toastmaster do not explain my reasons for engaging in farming. It is true, financial consideration did not govern me in this matter, although I do hope to make the farm self-supporting. If I do not, I shall not feel that I have made a bad investment.

"In seeking the quietude of the farm, I was actuated by that yearning that comes to all men who have led a busy life—to turn back the years and try to live the days of patches, freckles, stone bruises and laughter; to live those days again when there was only one care in the world, not to be late for meals.

"I want to go way back yonder in my life to a house half hidden from view by the locusts and maples, where the bees hummed and swarmed. I want a scent of the honeysuckle as the maples and locusts budded forth in what seemed to me the morning of the world—springtime. I want to follow the path down by the big spring, through the hazel bushes, where the cotton tail jumped up just ahead of you and the redbird sang his sweetest song. I can follow the path in my mind as the hunting dog follows the scent, down to the old rock hole where the clear, cool waters of the creek formed an eddy, in which the chub and yellow perch lurked and jumped at the bait as they never did anywhere else.

"I want to feel that ecstacy that only comes to a boy when the bottle cork you used for a bobber goes under water, when something is pulling on the line like a scared mule, bending double the pole cut in the thicket on your way to the creek. I want to throw the pole away, roll up the tangled line, hide it away in the corn crib, and sneak back to the house the opposite direction from the creek, that the folks wouldn't suspect I had been fishing on Sunday.

"I want to go back yonder in my life where the hills meet the sky in a purple haze, where you feel yourself growing with the trees, where the smell of new earth calls you to the woods, where the dogwood is budding and the may-apple peeps up through last year's leaves at the new leaves budding out on the grand old maples above.

"I want to go so far back from the worries of city life that the crowing of the cock and the cackle of the hen will tell me it is morning, instead of the clanging of bells and blowing of whistles. I want to go back yonder where the setting sun, instead of the city lights, will tell me it is night. I want to hear the cricket and whip-poor-will as we heard them in the evenings long ago, as we listened with bated breath to the jack o'-lantern legends that stirred our childish fancy until the croaking of the frogs sent us to bed to dream of uncanny things.

"I want to live in the happiness of an autumn when the frost was on the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; when the hickory nuts falling on the ground called the squirrels; when the stars gleamed bright enough to afford you light to bring a 'possum out of a tree with the old flintlock musket—how you cherished that gun. And when the snow hid the roads and paths like the white coverlet on the big bed in the spare room and the big backlog crackled and burned on the hearth, and the red apples glistened in the firelight, and the popcorn imitation of a snowstorm was more realistic than any artificial one that you have since witnessed.

"How you shivered as you undressed in the room above going to bed, but how soundly you slept after you got warm. I want to go back to one of those hallowed Sunday mornings in summer when the hush of heaven seemed to fall on earth; when the quiet that spread over hill and vale seemed to announce the Spirit of God in some unusual sense; when the peace of heaven seemed so near you felt its happiness.

"While living the old days over—the days way back yonder—I want to live in the love of my friends of today. Whilst I cherish only a memory of the friends of the old days, I hold, after my family, the love and esteem of my friends of today above all things in this life.

"Gentlemen, come down to the farm. Visit with me and endeavor to live the life of a boy again, if only for a day."

Bill Brown as a Farmer

Alfred's response was not what the assemblage expected. Congratulations were showered upon him. The speech was reproduced in newspapers all over the country. Printed copies of it were circulated. The sentiment expressed therein seemed to have struck a responsive chord in the hearts of all men who love to live close to Nature. It does not seem possible that any one would have the hardihood to endeavor to controvert the sentiments set forth in Alfred's tribute to the "Back to the Farm" life, yet there appeared in all the papers that had given publicity to Alfred's speech, a diatribe from Bill Brown, headed "The Truth," as follows:

Pittsburgh, Pa.

I have read with much interest Al. G. Field's address on "The Farm." If you will pardon my profanity for a minute, I will say "Damn the Farm."

Our paths through the woods on the farm must have been different. Al. pursued the cotton tail through the level and green grassy meadows, getting pleasure in pursuit, and which left no traces of his going; I pursued the ever ready pole cat through hollows, over logs and stone piles, which left nothing but bruises, but I found more pleasure in pursuit than possession.

Al. had patches, freckles and laughter; I had rags, bruises and tears. Al. took the path down to the spring through the hazel bushes; I took the stony road to a mudhole through thorns and blackberry bushes.

Al. caught nice yellow perch with a cork bobber; I caught suckers with a paper bobber, for there were no corks used on our farm. Al. fished on Sunday; I went to church at 10 o'clock, Sunday School at 11, church again at 1:30, and perchance prayer meeting in the evening.

Al. smelled the new earth from a two seated surrey or horseback; I smelled the new earth from the back of the harrow or plow.

Al. watched the dogwoods bud, and breathed their fragrance as they budded; I felt the dogwood switches drop on my poor back and bare limbs.

Al. had to be told when it was dark and when it was morning. I knew when I was told to quit work that it was dark and bed-time, and knew that it was daylight when I was yanked out of bed to walk two miles before breakfast to bring in a lot of cows.

Al. had a nice "coverlit" over his bed, and turned into a nice feather bed and rested in peace. I rolled myself up in a worn-out horse blanket, and turned into a tick filled with straw, shivering until I got to sleep and kept on shivering. Oh yes, I cherish the days on the farm and will never forget them.

But a more pleasant recollection to me is the day that I left the cackling of the hens, the braying of the donkey, the bellowing of the cows, and the old plow standing in the furrow, where I hope it still stands.

The new stack of hay might have brought fragrance to Al's sensitive nostrils, but to me it seemed as well suited as a reservoir for perfume as for a monument in a cemetery.

I want to live in the love and esteem of my friends of today; I cherish the memory of the old friends, and I value their love and esteem, but the memory of the old straw pile back of the barn still clings to me closer than all these, and e'er I get ready to go back to the darned old farm, I will make myself a pair of wooden bills and perch myself on the stake and rider fence, prepared to take my turn with the hennery.

"Visit me," he says, "and endeavor to live the life of a boy over again on the farm." Not for Bill, and I can but repeat what I said in my profane way, again and again.

Al. can have the farm, but as for me it's first "back to the mines, Bill." With sad memories of the milk pail, the fork and curry comb, I am,

Sadly and sorrowfully yours,

Bill Brown.

Insofar as Alfred's knowledge goes, Bill Brown's pessimistic views of farm life were not accepted by any save Alfred's immediate family. Alfred carried a copy of his address, "A Glimpse of Nature, or Back to the Farm" in his pocket. Mrs. Field preserved Bill Brown's screed. As one prediction of Bill's after another came to pass, she would say to Alfred: "There, see there? Even Mr. Brown knew what would come of this farming business."

The dyke was constructed and would no doubt have answered the purpose intended had it not been constructed of clayey soil that disintegrated and floated away with the muddy current the first freshet.

Chickens were the first purchases. Rhode Island Reds, Alfred asserted, were superior as farm chickens. They were good layers, good setters and good mothers. One hundred hens and two roosters were the basis of the poultry plant. Alfred had read that one hundred hens properly catered to would produce on an average five dozens of eggs a day. Eggs were fifty cents a dozen. He figured that fifteen dollars a week would be pretty good. Of course, he had forgotten that farm hands eat eggs. Two dozen eggs were brought to the city and delivered to the home of Alfred, where the family rests up in the winter from the farm labors of the summer. "Of course, it's not what I expected," he consolingly admitted to his wife, "but you can't move chickens from one place to another and have them do well. Howard Park says so and he has had a heap of chicken experience. They will do better when you get out there. You will feed them properly and regularly. Their laying streak has been broken up. We must train them to lay while eggs are expensive and lay off when they are cheap."

Alfred insisted Pearl keep a "farm book," entering on one page the expenditures opposite the receipts. After two months Alfred declared the book a trouble and worry. "Just spend what you have to and let it go at that. Howard Park says everybody has the same experience when they first go into farming." There were two entries on the two pages of receipts, nineteen pages of expenditures:

February 14th—Credit by 2 dozen eggs	$ .98
March 11th—One bull	35.00

Alfred bought the bull from a neighboring farmer. "Registered Jersey, worth at least $100; I got him for $75," boasted Alfred. "The man needed the money." It was learned later that the bull had been accidently shot by trespassing hunters and permanently disabled. When Alfred was put wise to this, he sold the bull for beef.

"I Want a Rooster for Every Hen"

In the grocery bill, (Alfred furnished everything), there was a charge of four dollars and thirty cents for eggs. Alfred argued to his wife it was for hatching eggs for the incubator; that he had instructed Mrs. Roost she must raise four hundred chickens at least. But Mrs. Roost, over the telephone, advised that farmers must have eggs to eat and she always cleared her coffee with eggs, and our hens were not laying and that most of them had the roup, and you can't expect eggs when you only got two roosters for a hundred hens. Alfred called up Mrs. Reed and advised that he must have more roosters. "How many do you wish?" she inquired.

AL. G. FIELD, 1886

"Well, we are not getting any eggs. I want a rooster for every hen. I'm bound to have eggs."

The wife changed her mind as to Rhode Island Reds. She declared the only person she knew that had good luck with Rhode Island Reds was Mrs. Mott and she just lived with her chickens. "Now, Mrs. Goodrich has Barred Plymouth Rocks and they are the chickens." Alfred ordered a flock of Barred Plymouth Rocks. Someone recommended to Alfred Black Minorcas. Charley Schenck had a pen he wished to dispose of. Alfred figured that since they had experienced so much bad luck with one breed they would soon strike a winner by having several kinds. Therefore, when S. S. Jackson presented Alfred with a pen of India Games, you could look out upon the chicken lot at any time of day and see three or four cock-fights in progress at the same time. The hands were kept from their work, attracted by the gameness of the cocks.

A beautiful litter, (as Alfred termed them), of top-knots, Van Houden chickens, were the next addition to the poultry yard. When cautioned that he would soon have a polyglot lot of poultry, Alfred, for the first time, weakened on the chicken proposition; more for the reason that he was disgusted with their polygamous propensities. Although living in one herd, he imagined that each breed would live to itself. Alfred dubbed them "Mormons."

Pearl and Mrs. Field had become interested in the little chicks. As hen after hen came off, her brood was carried to the house and endeavors made to raise the chicks by hand. They had some forty or fifty, when rats, or a "varmint" penetrated the coop and twenty-four were killed in one night. The sorrow caused by this loss of their pets was partly compensated for by the closer ties formed with those spared. Each one was named. When either Pearl or Aunt Tillie passed out of the kitchen door, the chicks would fly to meet them. Stooping down to feed them, they would fly on the shoulders of the two women.

One of the grocery bills rendered contained an item, "Four dollars for chickens." Mrs. Mott had also sold Mrs. Field quite a number of chickens. Alfred supposed these chickens were for breeding purposes. One Sunday the table was without chicken. Mrs. Field explained she had no one to go after them. "I'd have shot them for you if you had advised me you wanted chickens killed." "Chickens killed?" repeated both Pearl and Aunt Tillie, "Well, I'd like to see you or anyone else kill our chickens. Why, there's Betty, Biddy, Snooks, Dick and Kelly; they're just like humans. You don't imagine for a moment we will kill any of our chickens, do you?" And Alfred bought chickens for the table all summer.

Alfred promised his wife that he would look after the farming part. The chickens and dairy came under her charge. He therefore, sat down to his desk and wrote out minute instructions as to fields to be planted and designated the crops to sow in each field. He ordered a hill field, near the barn, sowed in buckwheat. The farmer meekly intimated that ten acres of buckwheat and five acres of oats seemed rather disproportional. "Never mind, follow my order," haughtily commanded Alfred. "None of us care for rolled oats and we all like buckwheat cakes." Alfred discharged his regular farmer; he claimed the man got up too early; he got up at four o'clock and threshed around making so much noise nobody could sleep.

The hills had not been plowed in years. The land was shaly, easily washed. It rained from the day the family moved onto the farm until late in June. Seeds of all kinds from the fields above washed down into the bottoms below. Beans, potatoes, egg plant, rye, peas, beets and cow peas grew in the bottom as only noxious weeds and wild crops grow. From this conglomeration sprang the noted bean that Bill Brown and Alfred are forming a company to distribute.

The rain continued. The weather being cool, fires were necessary. Nothing but wood was used as fuel. The wife protested the heat for cooking was not sufficient. It just dried the juices in the meats. A heating plant was put in. Kerosene lamps did not produce sufficient light, so a lighting plant was installed. Springs and well were unhandy. Alfred installed a water plant. Alfred swore you might just as well live in the city if you had all city fixin's. The walks in the yard and across the lawn were inches thick with mud. Pearl and Mrs. Field, by the light of the wood fire, would read Bill Brown's life on the farm, while Alfred watched the barometer. The women began to talk about moving back to town. Alfred was as miserable as life could make him. Day after day the rain fell in torrents. The dam that formed the lake wherein Alfred intended raising fish in summer, and a skating pond in winter, and also to furnish ice, broke, flooding the cow stables, washing out the sweet corn patch and the garden floated.

Alfred was unmercifully berated that he had dragged his family to the country, destroying their happiness and spending all his money for—what, for what? Just to gratify a whim, a boyish illusion.

Alfred felt he must do something to turn the tide. The rain kept falling. He started to the city on his mysterious errand. Returning he proudly hung above the mantle piece this motto:

"It hain't no use to grumble and complain,
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice;
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
Why, rain's my choice."

The rain ceased. The sun shone, the grasses grew. Happiness came into the family. Ere the summer was over, farm life had so ingratiated itself that they did not relish the idea of moving back to the city.

Bill Brown is ever kind. He sent a half dozen guineas, advising they were "chicken-house sentinels." They multiplied more rapidly than any fowls known; that the hen laid forty and fifty eggs in one nest. Mr. Field and all the hands followed those guineas all summer, nor did anyone find a guinea egg. After months of seeking guinea eggs, an old lady familiar with guineas advised Alfred that all of Bill's guineas were cocks. It was true; they were all Shriner guineas. Alfred procured a few Suffragettes and guineas are now the most prolific fowl production of the farm.

Home, Sweet Home

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[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE]

It's curious what fuss folks makes 'bout boys that went away
Years ago from home.
There's young Bill Piper that used to keep recitin',
Do you know what he's done?
He's gone to actin', there's some that actually pay
To go an' hear Bill talkin', public in a play.
Why, he couldn't chop a cord o' hickory wood in a year;
He may fool the folks out yonder, but he ain't no hero here.

I am glad to have Uncle Tom visit us. He is a good man. It is true his calling made him very narrow when a younger man, but he was always kind hearted, and under his austerity there's a lot of man. I am doubly glad he is to visit us. I want him to carry back to my old home, to those who predicted a much different career for me, a few things I would like them to know.

Uncle Tom

"What are you going to do with Polly?" inquired the wife. Polly was a bird purchased in New Orleans; warranted to be one of the best talkers ever imported; talks French, English and Spanish. The bird came up to the guarantee and even surpassed it. She can cuss in two or three languages not specified in the guarantee. The wife suggested we carry Polly to sister's. "But Uncle Tom will visit there and it would come out that the parrot belonged to us. Besides, it would be disreputable to have Polly's profanity charged to sister's family."

Janet Wolfe, a teacher of languages, was also a guest of the family. She and the uncle spent a great deal of their leisure talking to Polly. Janet was particularly interested in Polly's Spanish and French. One morning the two were standing near Polly's perch. Polly was unusually talkative. In answer to a sentence of Janet's purest South End French, Polly rolled off sentence after sentence of New Orleans French Market French. Janet turned red, then pale. She hurriedly inquired as to whether Uncle Tom understood French. When assured he did not, she elevated her hands in thankfulness.

Uncle Tom adhered to the custom of family worship. One morning Uncle Tom's prayer was very long. Polly, evidently—like others of the family—was hungry, but, unlike them, did not have the politeness to conceal it. Stretching her wings to the fullest width, craning her neck, in a bored tone she squeaked: "O-h h-e-l-l. Give us a rest." There was no suppressing the laughter. Polly laughed too. Uncle Tom smiled faintly. Alfred pretended to chastise the bird, raising the feather duster over her. Polly began a tirade that all the family understood. It must have sounded to Uncle Tom something like this: "Go to hell-go-to-hell-all-of-you. Get-to-hell-out-of-yere-dam-you, dam-you-all. Polly's-sick-poor-Polly. Chippy-get-your-hair-cut-hair-cut. Oh-hell."

Many were the arguments and interchanges of opinions as between Alfred and Uncle Tom. The younger man never mentioned the old days at home, he was more anxious to have the uncle refer to them. Many years had elapsed and Alfred surmised the uncle had forgotten events that were ineffaceably impressed upon his own memory. The uncle and nephew, held many long conversations. One night while alone the uncle took Alfred aback a bit, when he very abruptly inquired as to whether he was satisfied with his profession—his life. "I can see you are well fixed and financial success has come to you. But, are you satisfied with your life? Would you live the same life over again?"

"Uncle in the main, I am satisfied with my life. There are many things that I would prefer to forget and there are many things I hope to remember. As a boy, I was ambitious to become a circus clown." The uncle smiled. "This at first, was a boy's whim, an illusion. That ambition was based entirely upon a desire to acquire sufficient money to make me comfortable. It was a boyish fancy at the beginning but some of the happiest days of my life were when I wore the motley and endeavored to spread gladness as a circus clown.

"To see others enjoying themselves, to hear and see folks laugh, is one of the greatest pleasures to me in this life. But I am sorry I did not become something other than a showman." The old minister looked at Alfred in amazement. "I will always retain most pleasant recollections of the many friends that I have made in the show world, but, Uncle Thomas, I feel that I could have done something better for myself if I had only been as bent upon it as I was upon show life."

"Why, Alfred! You surprise me. What do you think you should have gone into? A mercantile business?"

"No, I never had any taste for that. Of late years I have often wished I had been enabled to enter the legal profession. I believe I would have made a success as a lawyer."

"Oh, as a politician?"

"No, no, Uncle, I abhor politics as I know them. I mean a lawyer. One who was respected by all the people in the community where he practiced. I have often thought I would like to be a sort of lawyer and farmer. I never was satisfied with myself until I became the owner of a farm."

"Well, if you are dissatisfied with your business, I cannot understand why you have been so successful."

"Now, Uncle Tom, you misunderstand me. I am not dissatisfied with my business. I had ambitions as a boy, I have ambitions as a man."

"Are you ashamed of your calling?" This was a leading question. Alfred felt the inquisitor was digging pretty deep.

"No, Uncle, I am not. I shall always respect the calling of a public entertainer. I thank God, and pat myself on the back often, that not one dollar I possess was wrung from a human being that they were unwilling to part with. I respect myself all the more that not one penny of the little that I have saved is tainted, that is in the latter day application of the term. In my professional work I have carried gladness. I have endeavored to make two blades of grass grow where one grew before. I have injured no man by my profession, but have made many happy. Why should I be ashamed of it? Of course, I often wish that I had entered a field where I could have enjoyed more opportunities; where I could have extended myself as it were. I would like to live in a larger world."

"Why, Alfred, I am again surprised. You travel the world over."

"Yes, but Uncle, it's the narrowest world you ever dreamed of. A crowd's no company. The loneliest moments I pass are when in the largest gatherings. I was cut out for a showman, but I ought to be a stationary one. If you and father and all my other relatives had only headed me for the law, perhaps I'd be a different man."

"Alfred, what was to be could not be changed. You have everything to be thankful for and little to regret. You have a faithful helpmate in your wife. Your father is a great consolation to you. He tells me of the lovely traits of your character. If I had my children around me as he has, if I could live in their love as he does, I would sacrifice all else in this world."

"Why, Uncle Tom, aren't you satisfied with your calling?"

"If you refer to the ministry, I answer 'No.' The salaries of the ministers of this country do not average five hundred dollars a year. And yet, as a class, they are the best educated the hardest working, poorest paid, underfed profession I know of. With less culture, less mental power, there are men in all walks of life that are paid three times the salary even our most eloquent and useful ministers receive. And yet, no matter how great the good a minister may have accomplished, if he makes the slightest allusion to the matter of money, it discredits him. That I have worn the livery of Christ all my days will buoy me up, and that I am proud of my service in the army of the Lord lends happiness. I have endeavored to maintain the character I have assumed in meekness and sincerity. But the character of a minister is the most assailable of that of any of the professions. The slightest slip, the one misstep, and he is lost. Like Samson, shorn of his hair, he is a poor, feeble, faltering creature, the pity of his friends, the derision of the public."

"Well, Uncle Tom, yours is not the only profession that's held back by popular prejudices. It's one of the peculiarities of the littleness of human nature. It's a sure sign of a dwarfed mind to have your actions criticized and misconstrued. There's not a great calamity, a pestilence, a plague, a drought or a famine, a Galveston disaster, a Johnstown flood, a poor family's poverty, that the theatrical profession are not appealed to first and are first to respond. But if a theatrical man interests himself in public affairs his motives are impugned."

"I am surprised at this, Alfred. It sounds so very much like the restrictions placed upon ministers. Does it hamper you in your affairs?"

"Not in the least. That is, not now. There was a time when I was younger that I felt the sting pretty keenly. Now it has a different effect. You remember Bill Jones in Brownsville? He had a boy named Bill. Young Bill was under discussion by the cracker barrel committee in Oliver Baldwin's grocery. Andy Smith had just remarked that 'Bill Jones's boy is a durned fool; he don't know nuthin'; he don't know enough to gether greens; he don't know enough to slop hogs.' Just then he noticed the boy's father sitting behind the stove. Old Bill had overheard Andy's talk. Andy endeavored to square himself. In an apologetic tone he said: 'But, taint' your fault, Bill; tain't your fault; ye ain't to blame. You learnt him all you know.' You can't tell anything about human nature and the better plan is to make yourself as agreeable to those you respect and love and to keep others at arm's length. When you feel that folks have any objections to you, beat them to it. They soon come over."

"Do you remember a boy that was raised in Brownsville, worked in Snowden's Machine Shop? Do you remember he worked his way up? He entered the ministry. He became a very good preacher, quite eloquent. There was a movement inaugurated by some of his boyhood friends to have him brought to Brownsville to fill the pulpit of a church. The women of taste were sort of running things. The Brownsville boy who had become a preacher was turned down. Do you remember why? Well, his parents were very humble people. The taste of many of the members revolted at the idea of the pulpit of the church being filled by one whose father worked around the town in his shirt sleeves. Do you remember the trade of his father?"

"No, I have forgotten."

"Well, he was a carpenter." The uncle did not perceive the application at once. After a moment he nodded his head a half dozen times, very slowly as he framed the question: "What became of—?"

"He is living in retirement with his children in Houston, Texas. He became a noted man in the ministry of that state. He never visited his old home after the slight put upon him by the taste of a part of the congregation."

"Well, Alfred, your experience has been of great value to you. You have met all manner of people."

"Yes, and in all walks of life. And my estimate of them is, that human nature is about the same in all men, although some of them possess the faculty to a greater degree than others of concealing it. The first President I ever met to talk to was General Grant. I had always read of him as the Silent Man of Destiny; but he did about all the talking for all those about him the few moments I was in his presence."

"I met Ben Harrison, but that was before he was President. It was during a political campaign in Indiana. He seemed to me to be about as cool and level-headed a man as I ever met. I stood beside him on a car platform. In Petersburg, Va., after he was elected President, he came out of his private car in response to the cheers of the crowd. I feel sure he intended to make a short speech, as the multitude seemed to demand it. The President was bowing his acknowledgments to the large gathering, when someone, with that bad taste that always crops out at the most inopportune moment, yelled 'Hurrah for Cleveland.' A great many others, with bad taste, laughed. Harrison flushed to his temples, bowed and backed into the car.

"I met Cleveland twice. Once in that old club in Buffalo, N. Y. Cleveland was sheriff at that time. He was in the prime of manhood, sociable and full of animation. He did not talk much but was a good listener and a hearty laugher at the stories George Bleinstein related. I met him again after he was out of the Presidential chair. His health was shattered. He was endeavoring to recuperate in that most sensible way, hunting and fishing. His limbs were in such condition he could not endure the exercise and did not get the benefit he anticipated from the outdoor life.

"I met Rutherford B. Hayes many times while he was Governor of the State of Ohio, and once after he became President. He was the most democratic of men, plain and approachable.

"Of all the Presidents I have had the good fortune to meet McKinley was the most lovable to me, probably because I was better acquainted with him than the others. Mrs. McKinley and her sister owned the Opera House in Canton, Ohio. Mrs. McKinley's brother, Mr. Barber, was the manager for them. I met McKinley in Columbus, Canton and Washington. He was always the same. He never mentioned politics at any time I was in his presence; always talked upon commonplace subjects, inquiring after friends or conditions of business over the country. McKinley had the good taste to remember his friends.

"It was the custom of the President and his wife, while in Washington, to call up the home of Mr. Barber in Canton, on the long distance telephone daily. Alfred happened in Canton on New Year's day. He wished the President a Happy New Year over the phone. The President, in turn, invited him to call at the White House when visiting Washington. Alfred, after the phone was hung up, remarked to Barber: 'The President is too busy with politicians to bother with minstrels.' Barber afterwards repeated Alfred's remark to the President. Later, Alfred visited Washington. The President sent a messenger inviting him to call at the White House, nor did Alfred have long to wait when his card was sent in. After a hearty handshake the President invited him to have a cigar. The first question he asked was as to the health of an old Columbus liveryman—Brice Custer—a Democrat at that.

"The most interesting near-President I ever met was your old fellow-townsman, James G. Blaine."

"Oh, I knew Blaine well as a boy," Uncle Tom said. "I never met him after he left Brownsville. Where did you meet him?"

"I visited Augusta, Me., with my minstrels. I sent a messenger inviting him to attend the entertainment. In reply he invited me to call at his residence. To my surprise he seemed to be familiar with my career. He inquired after many of the older men of Brownsville, particularly John Snowden, Bobby Rodgers and others. He could not remember my father but he remembered grandfather, Uncle William and Uncle Joe's father. His memory as to the older inhabitants of the town was most remarkable. He gave me much information as to the early history of Brownsville. He advised when he regained his health he intended visiting the valley again, renewing old friendships. The cheeks of the famous American were sallow and flabby. His general appearance was that of one who was desperately struggling to fight off the finish. Although he talked hopefully of the future and outlined his precautions for guarding his health, it was not long afterwards until he 'crossed the bar.'

"Blaine was a wonderful man. Do you remember the last speech he made at his old home? It was in the midst of a heated political campaign. Several noted orators accompanied him. The issues of the campaign were discussed by the speakers who preceded him. Blaine was introduced; the applause was long-continued. Speaking slowly at first, with distinct enunciation, he said:

"'Ladies and Gentlemen, Neighbors, Friends, All: I am here tonight in the interests of that great political party of which I have the honor to be a member. I came here to make a political speech. I came here to discuss the questions in which this section is so vitally interested. I see many familiar faces. I see many in front of me tonight who have always held views opposed to mine, politically; but our opinions on public questions have never marred our friendships and never will insofar as I am concerned. I always hope to retain the respect and good-will you bear me, evidenced by your presence here tonight.'

"'When I gaze around me, I note the silver tops of many men whose hair was as black as the raven's wing when we trod these old hills together. I note cheeks even whiter now than the hair that shades them—cheeks then flushed with the bloom that only comes to youth. I know many of you here tonight expect me to discuss the issues of the day. I hope you will excuse me when I inform you I cannot bring myself to do it, that word of mine might cause pain to one friend—that would destroy all the pleasure that has come to me from this meeting of old friends here tonight—it is a pleasant feeling to the wanderer that he is again in the home of his fathers, in the home of his friends.'

"He continued relating incidents of his boyhood. I venture to say it was the most effective political speech ever delivered and not a word of politics in it."

"Alfred, your experiences are valuable, and I believe you are filling the mission God intended you for. I feel when I talk to you my little world growing smaller. I have lived in a little world all my life. The only information I get of the big world comes through well-meaning, but often prejudiced, persons. I do not know man as I should. I believe to know God you must know man. Alfred, I am told intemperance is the curse of the theatrical profession. Are many of your people drunkards?"

"Very few of them. We do not tolerate a drunkard one day. It would be an insult to permit a drunkard to go before an audience. Theatrical people with their peculiar temperaments and manner of life, are easily led astray but I do not believe, comparatively speaking, there is nearly so much intemperance among theatrical people as some other professions."

"How do you manage the members of your company?"

"We endeavor to dissuade them from all practices that will interfere with their duties. We take a great deal of pains with the younger ones; particularly as to the drink habit; do all we can with advice, and endeavor in every way to have them lead sober, moral lives. The general manager of one of the largest railway systems in this country, after twenty-five years' experience, has arrived at this conclusion. 'Do all possible to rescue the man starting in on a drinking life. Bump the old soak and bump him hard; bump him quick. Never temporize with a man who has broken his promise as to the liquor habit. If he gets bumped hard, it will either cure him or cause him to drink himself to death. In either way society is the better off.'"

"What a load of sin the saloonkeeper carries, the man that sells the drunkard rum. If all the saloons could be closed—Uncle Tom, have you given the subject, or this sin, or whatever you may term it, serious study? The saloonkeeper may have it within his power to curtail, to lessen the evil effects of drunkenness, but it's high time the fellow on the other side of the bar came in for his share of the censure. Don't you know that if every saloon in the land was closed, under existing conditions, drunkenness and the increased consumption of whisky would go on. Statistics bear this out."

"Well, what is your remedy for the evil, Alfred?"

"I have no remedy. I have a safeguard—high license, the sale of whisky placed in the hands of reputable men."

"But, Alfred, there are no reputable men in the whisky business."

"Uncle Tom, you admitted a few moments ago you lived in a little world, you did not know men. I am not entering upon a defense of the saloonkeeper, but human nature, is human nature. Bad taste is bad taste. It's bad taste for a minister of the gospel to make statements that can be controverted so readily that his veracity is made questionable. If I were a minister, I would inform myself, visit the saloons. I would go into the Neil House, the Chittenden, the lowest dives in the city; not as a sneak or a spy, but in my duty, my profession, my calling as a preacher, as a man with the determination to do good unto my fellow men. I would go as He, in whose footsteps preachers profess to follow, did. I would shake hands with the business man, the bum. I'd pass them my card or have someone introduce me. I'd invite them to visit my church. I'd make them feel I was a friend, not an enemy. I would endeavor to instill into their lives the truth. I'd preach that God is love. I would make myself a welcome visitor everywhere I went. The presence of a good man with a desire to do good has a beneficial effect upon men in every walk of life, in church or saloon.

"Uncle Thomas, if the clergy do not realize it, they should. They are widening a breach, a chasm between the people and the church, that will be difficult to bridge over. They are positively bringing their calling into disrepute. Let nothing be done through strife or vain glory but in lowliness of mind, is a divine injunction they seem to have forgotten."

"Alfred, I am surprised at your arguments. I want to ask you: Did you ever know an honest saloonkeeper, an honest man who made or sold whisky?"

"There are thousands of them. Thomas Daly, one of the largest distillers in this country, Belle Vernon, Fayette County, Penn., is a man who stands as high morally as any in his section.

"Martin Casey, who lately passed away in Ft. Worth, Texas, a wholesale dealer in liquors, was a friend of mine for thirty years. He was a friend of your nephews, Jim and Clarke. He was beloved in the community where he lived and died. No charity, no public or private work for the betterment of mankind, was without his support. The widow and orphan did not appeal to him without receiving. In fact, it was not necessary for the poor to appeal to Martin Casey. His friendship would have honored any man.

"You will say these men were too far away. Tom Swift, a saloonkeeper, stood as high among those who were intimate with him as any man in this city. Joe Hirsch is another, and there are hundreds of others."

"Then, Alfred, you are against temperance?"

"No, sir. I'm for temperance. If there is anything I can do to ameliorate or decrease the evil effects of intemperance, I will willingly take my place in the ranks and add my strength to the fight. Ninety men of a hundred are in sympathy with those who are battling for the alleviation of the evils of intemperance. But there are not ten men in a hundred that have faith in the means employed. The only practical temperance work that has come under my observation was that of Father Matthews and Francis Murphy."

"Well, Alfred, what do you think of Sam Jones, and Billy Sunday?"

"Sam Jones is dead and nearly forgotten. As to Billy Sunday, I have made it a rule not to talk about a business competitor. Talk is advertising. Billy Sunday is running a show. It's bigger than mine, but it's not as good because it's not an honest show. It's run under the guise of religion. Religion, as I understand it, is your life work from day to day and not the inspiration or the evolution of a week, a month or a year. Billy Sunday has four or five advance agents, or promoters. I employ only two. Billy Sunday has promoters the slickest in the business: men who have had the experience of years in all sorts of schemes. His show is a sad reflection upon the ministers and church members of any city that falls for his methods. The preachers simply admit that they are not equal to the labor they are engaged in. They must have a buffoon, a mountebank, whose methods are repugnant to those who believe in the religion that is taught by the Bible. Billy Sunday creates excitement that carries some folks off their feet for the time being: no lasting results obtain. Those that will remember Billy Sunday longest are those people who give up their money to him. Billy Sunday's show has the Gift Show scheme distanced before the start."

Uncle Tom enjoyed his visit to Columbus greatly. On his last Sunday he occupied the pulpit of the Evangelical Church on East Main Street. He advised Alfred the day previous that he would preach a special sermon—text, I Cor., Chapter 1, Verse 19: "I had rather speak five words with my understanding that by my voice I might teach others also, than ten thousand words in an unknown tongue."

After elaborating upon the text, he reached the pith of his sermon: "A man out of place is only half a man. His nature is perverted. He becomes restless and discontented and his life is made a failure, while the same person might have made a success of all his undertakings if he had been properly placed. As a rule, that which one likes best to do is his forte. No man can be wholly successful in this life until he finds his place. Some men glide into their proper sphere as naturally as the birds of the air fly, or fish in the deep swim. Others never ask the question of themselves: 'What is my place? What shall I do that I may be content to labor and succeed in the world?' Every man should ask himself: 'What is my place? How shall I decide it? How shall I fill it that my life shall not be a failure?' It may be difficult to answer this question. The answer may not always be from the heart, that is, influenced by sincerity. Ignorance or lack of ambition may prompt an answer and failure follow. Though difficult to answer, the question must be answered by all. 'What is my right place in the labor of this world? How shall I find it? How shall I succeed in it?' But few men can be really successful and discontented—contentment is success.

"Education and civilization will have found their highest value in this world when every man has chosen his proper work; work for which he is fitted by nature and inclination. How many boys have had their aspirations checked, their longings silenced, by loving but misguided parents and friends? How many boys, who might have attained eminence in a calling they were fitted for, have been forced to fill a place that was repugnant to their natures? There is not a day we do not see natural ability checked by occupations that are not congenial to those engaged in them. We can hardly conceive of a man or boy forced to do work they loathe. Parents may feel they are fulfilling a highest duty when they choose a profession or a calling they believe the best for their children, but against which the whole nature of the boy revolts, and for which they have no natural ability. If instinct and heart ask for a blacksmithing trade, be a blacksmith; if for carpentry, be a carpenter; if for the medical profession, be a doctor; if for music, be a musician. There is nothing like filling your place in the labor of this world successfully. If you cannot fill a higher position acceptably and successfully, be content to choose a lower one. There's nothing more creditable in this world than filling a small place in a large way. It is better to be a first rate brick mason than a second rate lawyer. Choose your calling in this world. Prosecute it with all the vigor in your being. With a firm reliance in God and confidence in yourself failure is impossible."

Neither Uncle Tom nor Alfred, in their conversation referred to the sermon at dinner. Several complimented Uncle Tom on his sermon. As Alfred looked across the table at the Uncle, they both smiled. Alfred thought of another sermon he had sat under years previously, and it's his opinion the Uncle had the same thought.

Uncle Tom sleeps in a little church yard in Virginia near the people he loved so well, and that his views broadened in his last years only made him more beloved by those for whom he always faithfully labored, believing in the right as he saw it. He was an honest man, a consistent Christian.

---

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX]

Not hurrying to, not turning from the goal.
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays the toll
To you and age, and travels on with cheer.

Uncle Madison, stage driver, soldier, planter, historian, a gentleman of the old school; versed in the classics and current events, most positive in his deductions. He fought every day and year of the Civil War for the cause of the South. He had labored every day since Appomattox to better the conditions he had been active in unsettling. The soul of honor, as courtly as a king, as keen as a flint, as blunt as a sledge, as tender as a child.

Uncle Madison

It was telegraphed all over the country that A. P. Clayton, Mayor of St. Joe, Mo., and Alfred, were behind the bars in Pittsburgh, Pa. Bill Brown telegraphed W. E. Joseph, Masonic Temple, Columbus: "Clayton and Field in jail here, will you help to get them out?" The answer was: "If Clayton and Alfred are in jail, it's where they belong. W. E. Joseph."

Uncle Madison read of it in the newspapers. He reared and charged. "Bill Brown nor no other man could put him in jail without suffering for it." Alfred's explanation did not satisfy Uncle Madison. "It's only Bill's way of having fun with his friends. No one that goes to Pittsburgh but Bill plays some sort of a joke on him. We are glad to get off so easy. We expected him to steal our clothes or have us indicted for bootlegging. Why, there are a number of people in the west—good people—who will not go east via Pittsburgh, fearing Bill's practical jokes."

Pet Clayton, Imperial Potentate of the Shrine, was compelled to visit Pittsburgh in connection with his official duties. Clayton carried Alfred with him as protection. Alfred, in his haste, forgot his dress suit. Arriving in Pittsburgh only a few moments before the ceremonial session, Bill insisted Alfred wear one of his (Bill's) dress suits; that it was the rule of the Temple that all must wear dress suits to gain admission. Bill is wider than Alfred, "thicker through," but not quite as tall. There was too much space everywhere excepting in the length of legs and arms of Bill's dress suit, as it encompassed Alfred. No coaxing or lengthening of the suspenders or pulling at the sleeves could make Alfred look other than ridiculous. After walking from the Ft. Pitt Hotel to the Temple, the suit began to "set" to its new conditions. The legs, seat and sleeves, were drawing up at every breath.

Bill, in introducing the visitors, kindly made apologies for the condition of Clayton, and the appearance of Alfred, explaining that Clayton had just come from Louisville, where he was booked for one night only, but there was more to inspect than he had ever tackled before. He also assured the Nobility that Alfred owned a dress suit but they would not permit him to take it out of Columbus; that the suit Alfred wore was one he had kindly loaned him and he hoped that if anything happened Alfred those assembled would respect the clothes. When Alfred arose the next morning to prepare for the automobile ride the local people had tendered the visitors, his clothes were missing from the room. Bill Brown and the committee were waiting. "Slip on your overcoat; that will hide Bill's old suit. You won't be out of the automobile until you return. This hotel will make that suit good. How much did it cost you?" "Sixty dollars; well, we'll make them buy you a hundred dollar suit."

Every out of town guest, (Shriners) had lost something from their rooms. Harrison Dingman was tugging at an odd pair of shoes, a number eight and a ten, to get ready for the automobile tour. Bill Brown was everywhere consoling the losers, making notes of the losses pretending he wanted to bring suit against the hotel.

Alfred and Clayton were hustled into an automobile under Brown's tender care. As the auto sped on, Clayton remonstrated as to the high speed at which the machine was traveling. Brown was describing the Carnegie Technical School. Clayton, seemingly not interested, bluntly informed Bill he would not ride further at the speed we're going. "I'm too damn good a man to get killed by one of these machines," declared Clayton.

Brown pretended his feelings were injured. Halting the auto as he climbed out backwards, he remarked: "I don't want to annoy you, gentlemen. The educational institution we are now passing is one of the most noted in the world. I supposed you'd be interested in it. It is one of which Pittsburghers are justly proud. We take a young man from the home, pass him through this school and turn him out versed in any profession or trade."

Clayton said something about an institution in St. Joe that took a hog from the pen every minute, passed him through and turned him out every minute, ready for the table. Clayton referred to St. Joe's slaughter houses.

After Brown left the auto there was no slacking of its speed. Both Alfred and Clayton remonstrated with the chauffer. He claimed they were not traveling nearly so rapidly as the machines containing the other guests; that he did not know their destination and must keep in sight of them. As Clayton was insisting that the auto be halted, a policeman threw up his hands, commanding the chauffer to halt, advising all they were arrested for exceeding the speed limit. Clayton quickly informed the officers that we were guests, not the owners of the machine; that we had protested since we entered the park at the high speed; that we were not to blame and should not be arrested. "I'm not here in Pittsburgh to break laws that I instruct my officers to enforce. I am the Mayor of St. Joe and I won't stand for this arrest."

"St. Joe, St. Joe," mused the Irish policeman, "well, uv course, I have no authority to turn yez loose. There may be a St. Joe but I haven't heered uf it. There's so meny new korporations springing up around yere, I exshpect Coryopolis will be havin' a Mayor next an' he'll come in the city an' want to have immunity fur any crime he may commit. No, you nabobs wid dese automobiles must be held in check. Ye kilt two shill-dren and a hog out uv wan family last week."

"It's Done Every Day in St. Joe"

Clayton led the officer behind the machine. Alfred overheard him offer the cop two dollars and to set them up to turn the pair loose. "It's done every day in St. Joe," Clayton confided. The officer shook his head and remarked:

"I'll have tu take yez down. Get in!" and he pointed with his club to the open door of the machine. "Climb in! I'll let yez talk to the sargent." The Mayor of St. Joe and the meek minstrel re-embarked. The officer sat up beside the chauffer, Clayton slinging it into him every foot of the way to the station.

There was a crowd outside the door. "Phwat are they pinched fur?" inquired a ward politician who had a pull, and consequently got a reply from the cops. "Exceedin' the spheed law in the park," replied the officer. "They're from out of town, are they?" "Yis," answered the cop. "The big one claims he's the Mayor of St. Joseph's Academy, er some other place. The other one has thryed to hide hisself in his overcoat."

They were in front of the Sergeant's desk. Alfred whispered to Clayton: "Give a fictitious name." Clayton was arguing the case with the Sergeant. "My name's Clayton. This is Mr. Field, Al. G. Field, of minstrel fame. He lives in Columbus, Ohio, right near you. He is the Potentate of Aladdin Temple, Columbus."

"It Will Cost Us Fifty Dollars and Costs"

"Hold on, Pet, hold on," pleaded Alfred, "I—I—"

"Never mind, Alfred, never mind. Now, I'm the Mayor of a city. I know just how to handle these matters."

"Well, don't give them my name and pedigree. Handle it without that," requested Alfred.

"Put them both together in cell twenty-three and send for the Bertillon officers. I think you'll find their mugs in the Hall of Fame." Clayton advised Alfred the Hall of Fame had reference to the Rogue's Gallery.

Clayton clamored for an opportunity to telephone the Chief of Police, the Director of Public Safety, or some other high mogul. "If I was in St. Joe, I'd be out of here in two minutes," he excitedly declared.

"Of course you would," assented Alfred, "but you're not in St. Joe. You're in jail in Pittsburgh, a shake-down town, and it will cost us fifty and costs, you see if it don't."

"Not on your life it won't. Let me get this fellow on the phone. What's his name? I met him last night. I'll tell him something," said Clayton.

"Do you know him?" meekly inquired Alfred.

"Know him? Hell? Why, I'm well acquainted with him. I had fifty drinks with him last night."

"Well, telephone him quick," urged Alfred.

"Hello, hello! This is Clayton, Clayton, C-l-a-y-t-o-n, Clayton. I met you last night. (Ha-ha-ha). How do you feel? (Oh, all right). Where am I at? No, no! Pet Clayton, Mayor of St. Joe, Imperial Potentate of the—hello—gurgle—gurgle," and Pet hung up the phone. "Well, don't that beat the bugs! Now this fellow knows me but he says he must see me. He only met me last night, he isn't familiar with my voice. I told him who I was but he said I might be all right, but he would come out and investigate."

"It seems to me Bill Brown would come back looking for us. You're the guest of honor."

This reminder riled Clayton up. "I'll attend to Mr. Brown's case. I put him where he is. I'll show him something next session of the Imperial Council."

Just then the jailer thrust a thin loaf of bread part ways between the bars. Alfred and Pet gazed at the bread as it stuck there. In a moment the man sat a thin can of water beside the bread. Clayton endeavored to bribe him to go to a restaurant and bring some real refreshments.

"Phwat wud yez like to eat?"

"Oh, Old Crow or Joe Finch's 'Golden Wedding.'"

"Oh, yez'll git none of those things out here. They wudn't know how to cook them if they had 'em. Yez'd better have some corned beef and cabbage. No, this is Friday, yez can't get that. Salt mackerel is the bhest I can do for yez the day."

Clayton pinched off a crust, with the remark: "I'll eat your bread but damned if I drink your water."

Clayton swore he could buy the police, the police station, the police department or anything else in Pittsburgh, but he wouldn't be shook down. He had endeavored to bribe everyone he came in contact with, but all refused to accept, even the policeman. Pet confidentially informed Alfred, as they sat in the dark, dismal cell, that he knew there wasn't a straight man in Pittsburgh; that being Mayor of St. Joe he had got next to all the grafting cities in the country. "I will admit to you, and you are the first man I ever breathed it to, there is a little, very little, grafting going on in St. Joe." Pet had Pittsburgh people sized up right, but he applied St. Joe prices and they were rejected.

The old janitor seemed to be taken up greatly with the two prisoners. "Yez belongs to some kind of a sacret society, don't yez?" he inquired.

Clayton straightened up to his full height. "Yes, we belong to the Ancient Arabic Order Nobles of the Mystic Shrine of North America." Pet rolled off the lengthy title so rapidly the old fellow was astounded. Resting his hands on the cell bars, he gazed admiringly at Clayton fully a half minute, ere he asked: "Are yez Pope of it?" Later it developed the janitor was a captain of police, also a Shriner. He played his part well.

When Bill Brown and McCandless arrived they almost came to blows. Bill swore they were disgraced. Bill endeavored to borrow the fifty dollar fine from both Clayton and Alfred. Failing, he borrowed, or pretended to borrow the amount from McCandless. Clayton and Alfred were liberated, loaded into an auto, the chauffer ordered to drive slowly to the Work House. When Clayton and Alfred stepped on to the veranda, the doors were flung open. On each side of the long tables there was a row of red fezzes. Under each a Shriner. There was a welcome, and such a welcome as could only be extended by those who at one time or another have been the victims of Bill Brown's practical jokes.

To those who are not intimate with Bill Brown, his sense of humor may appear forced. But his pranks are only the over-flowing exuberance of a great, big, fun-loving man—a big body—but scarcely big enough to contain a heart so filled with love for his fellow man. Alvah P. Clayton thanked the committee, thanked Bill Brown, thanked the police for their kindly consideration in placing him in jail. He stated that visiting the city in his official capacity, he had concluded the duties that called him to Pittsburgh, that he carried on his person money and valuables representing thousands of dollars. He was compelled to remain in the city all day and he felt much safer in jail than loose on the streets of Pittsburgh.

We love men like Bill Brown and Pet Clayton because they are lovable men. Happy is the man who has that in his soul that acts upon the dejected mortal as April showers upon violet roots.

Bill Brown has a motto worked on brass, with steel fish-hooks. It hangs over the mantelpiece in his home, and reads:

"I am an old man; my troubles are many, but most of them never happened."

Alfred has added to this motto: "They mostly happened to others."

Uncle Madison never could understand why Alfred was indifferent as to his arrest. He never could appreciate the sense of humor that influenced Alfred to go to jail for a joke.

Uncle Madison, while on a visit to Alfred, read in the Columbus papers of the different classes of people composing its citizenship. "You have the upper class, the middle class, the lower class." When Uncle Madison was asked if the people of Virginia were not designated by classes, he replied: "No sir! No sir! We only have one class of people in Virginia—the high class. All the others are Republicans."

Uncle Madison declares this is the age of shriek and frenzy, the over-zealous, ambitious politician who gets his ideas from history, going back a little further than most people read, puts them forward as his own.

"The majority of folks, in this the best of countries, believe that the founders of it, knew just about what they were doing when they made out the plans and specifications. If you will read the writings of Jefferson, you will find them as applicable to present conditions as they were the day they were written.

"Alfred I hope you won't be bamboozled by the ravings of demagogues, who constantly preach about the wrongs of the people. You'll find the wrongs that influence them are their own imaginary wrongs. The founders of this country provided for the righting of all wrongs. We can right any wrong at the ballot box. We do not require any new-fangled, or rather old-fangled, ideas warmed over. The man who advocates the so-called Referendum, the Initiative, and particularly, the Recall, is a traitor to the true principles of government as established by our forefathers. We have lived and thrived for more than a hundred years under the best form of government ever devised. If we want to preserve it, if we desire to perpetuate our institutions, the demagogue, the mountebanking politician must be squelched. They ruined every republic of the ancient world and if we don't throttle them they'll ruin ours.

"The self-seeking demagogue starts out with the captivating doctrine, the rule of the people, but his end will be the dangerous despotism of one man rule—the rule of himself. Could you or any reasoning man who has followed the demagogues of this country, for a moment doubt that any one of them, on the slightest pretext or opportunity would make a despot that would shade those of the old world?

"The initiative, the referendum and the recall lend themselves to the demagogues' schemes, and they call it progressiveness. Nothing in government could be more reactionary. It was tried in Greece and it failed. It was tried in ancient Rome and it failed. The political party that's 'agin' the recall, the referendum and the initiative, will win and it deserves to win.

"Socialism, in theory, is a most beautiful dream, an illusion. Socialism, as it is practiced by the discontented and turbulent, is about as near anarchy as we can get. See what they have done wherever they have obtained a foothold. It's un-American; it's unpatriotic; it is against all that a patriotic American citizen holds most sacred. Despite the demagogues who have brought about these conditions, those who love this country, respect its laws and appreciate the advantages it offers to every man willing to work, will triumph. The evolution will never come to revolution.

"The Romans, two thousand years ago, experienced the same troubles we are having. There is a fable comparing the corporeal body to the body politic. Once upon a time the feet became discontented and struck. They refused to be walked upon longer. The legs noted the dissatisfaction of the feet. Although they never had cause for complaint before, they said: 'Well, we will quit also. We will refuse to carry the body around longer.' The stomach said: 'Well, I can't digest food if you refuse to work, so I'll just quit also; besides, I've been working all these years for that aristocrat, the brain. I am down under the table doing the work while the brain is enjoying the wit and gaiety. I want to be up where he is. The brain has been the master long enough.' The brain became stubborn: 'All well and good for you. If that is the manner in which you look upon your duties; if you feel that you have been imposed upon, go your way. I refuse to think for you further.'

"The feet stubbed their toes; their course was irregular; they stepped on broken glass; they swelled up as large as watermelons. The legs, illy nourished, not clothed, became weak and rheumatic, gave way altogether. The stomach, not receiving food, began to ache and cramp. The brain was suffering from the ills that had befallen the stomach, the limbs and the feet. The misery became general. The entire body was suffering, and its sufferings had weakened it greatly.

"After a while they all concluded their only hope to live happily was that one should depend upon the other. It was decided the brain should run things; but the ills brought upon the body had caused so much suffering that it required a length of time until all recovered the condition they were in before the strike—as we will call it. All agreed the brain should have all the powers as before but must consider the other parts of the body as of greater importance than heretofore. This the brain had learned, and further that they were all necessary parts of one great body. And thus they all concluded to go to work together. After the brain put food into the stomach, clothes on the legs, healed the wounds of the feet, it found its sufferings had ceased. The brain learned it must take good care of all parts of the body or it would suffer. Neither one could long exist without the aid of the other.

"God needs all kinds of people in this world. Some represent the brain, others the stomach, more the feet and legs. As Abraham Lincoln said: 'God must love the common people: He made so many of them.'

"Along comes the demagogue. In his zeal to gratify vainglorious ambitions, he endeavors to convince the common people that confusion and agitation will right their wrongs.

"They quote from Abraham Lincoln. Let me ask you to compare their speeches and appeals with those of Abraham Lincoln. Do you remember any speech of these modern demagogues in which they have told the common people that they were living in the best country in the world? That they, the common people, had it in their power to relieve themselves of their few wrongs? Do you ever remember one of them telling the dear common people that good government was essential to prosperity? That it was a higher honor to be governed in a republic like ours, than to live in any other country?

"Every human being begins life under control and there is not one in a thousand that ever should live, only under control. Three-fourths of the people in this world never knew they were counted until they get into a mob.

"The demagogues array their hearers against wealth. They leave the impression that all who are so fortunate as to possess a little more of this world's goods than the poorest, are dishonest; that it is dishonorable to be of the moneyed class. They never tell the people it is but natural and necessary that some should be richer than others. These conditions have always prevailed and could only be changed by a gross violation of rights, held inviolate since the beginning of civilization. Since the world began, industry and frugality have been rewarded by wealth.

"These demagogues never tell the people that the opportunities are ever open that have made others rich. They never tell the boys growing up that ten or twenty years hence, they the boys of today, will be the business men, the moneyed class of this country.

"To be prosperous is not to be superior. Wealth should form no barrier between men. The only distinction that should be recognized is as between integrity and corruption.

"The present day fads are only the revival of the brain throbs of demagogues gone before. Read Jewett's translation of politics. Aristotle, who dealt wisely with many momentous questions, designated the initiative, referendum and recall, as the fifth form of democracy, in which not the law but the multitude, have the superior power and supersede the law by their decrees. Homer says that 'it is not good to have a rule of many.'

"As I said before, there will be no revolution. The patriotic people of this country will attend to this. But we will be compelled to do a little deporting and perhaps a little disciplining. The American people will attend to this sooner or later. The red flag has no place in this country. Curb the trusts, curtail combinations in restraint of trade, let all men get an even start in the race and the deserving will win. I am not a rich man; I'm a poor man. I've worked all my life. I am happy and contented. Insofar as riches are concerned, I would like to possess them, but damned if I want them if I've got to rob others who have labored more diligently and with more intelligence than I have."

"Now, Uncle Madison, what's your cure for the political and social upheavals?"

"Patriotism, loyalty to our country, to our flag, to our institutions, to the principles that have made us what we are."

"Uncle Madison, you were a Confederate soldier."

"Yes, and I'm proud of it. I fought for what I believed to be right. We of the south lived under conditions that had grown upon us, been forced upon us; I refer to slavery. I'm not defending slavery, I'm glad it's done, but we had lived under a government that guaranteed to protect our rights and property. No matter if slavery was wrong—was it right for one-half of the people of a country to insist the other half impoverish themselves—give up all their possessions?

"Slavery was handed down to us and—well, there's nothing in threshing this matter over; slavery was the cause of the war, the negro was the issue. If the negro had been a commercial product in the north there would have been no war. The south lost because it was ordained they should lose. That does not lessen my pride in the fact that I fought for the cause I thought was right; we were right in the fact that we fought for the property this government promised to protect us in, and that's just what the north would have done if conditions had been reversed."

"Uncle Madison, do you believe in the majority rule?"

"The majority, if you mean the greater number of people, never did rule and never will. It's the few that does the thinking, does the ruling. Why, my boy, there are times in our lives when God and one are a majority."

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[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN]

Mornin' little dreamer
With sunshine in your eyes,
The stars were talking to you
Ere they left the brightening skies.

"The Care of Children, by Dr. Holt," is the title of the book by which the baby is being reared. On the care of feeding bottles it recommends: "When the baby is done it must be unscrewed and put in a cool place under a tap. If the baby does not thrive, it must be boiled."

An Evening at Maple Villa

Hattie remarked afterwards she "never reckoned the poor, measley little thing would stay with us." It was little, it was puny, but it brought a happiness into the household never before experienced—brought a happiness into the lives of Uncle Al and Aunt Tillie—that only those who love children and have never been blessed with them can appreciate.

Alfred with his usual assurance undertook to instruct the family, including the doctor and the nurse as to how the baby should be handled—yes, that's the term he used, "handled." Aunt Tillie reminded him the baby was not a colt. He was advised that the old fashioned way of nursing babies was obsolete. He was not permitted to up-de-doo baby, that is, throw him up and catch him coming down, notwithstanding he asserted this was the only way to prevent a baby from becoming liver-grown; nor would Miss Liston or Pearl the mother, permit Alfred to kiss the baby on the mouth. Miss Liston asserted that kissing was most dangerous in spreading microbes and germs; therefore, the baby must not be kissed on the mouth.

"All right, little baby," Alfred would say, "I can kiss his little tootsie ootsies."

"Please don't kiss his foot," appealingly pleaded Pearl. "Please don't kiss his foot, he might put it in his mouth."

"I kissed you on the mouth a thousand times when you was a baby, and I'm living yet," snapped Alfred.

Field

Baby cried at night. Alfred declared it was unnecessary to lose sleep on account of a baby crying. All required was a cradle. Every person that expected to rear a baby should have a cradle.

Alfred visited every furniture store in the city. Not one had a cradle. Few understood what they were. One young clerk advised that his grandfather in the country, near Alfred's farm had one and he had heard the grandfather say his father before him had used it.

Alfred sent his colored man, Doc Blair, to borrow or buy the cradle.

The cradle was borrowed. The man did not care to sell it. He sent the wagon to get the cradle.

"Hide it in the barn until I return; I want to introduce baby to it. This will prevent his crying at night, that is so wearing on his mother and so irritating to Aunt Tillie, and leg-breaking to his daddy."

He explained to Hattie, who knew all about babies. Hattie just smiled: "You just rock him to and fro and he will go to sleep any time. You can't raise a baby without a cradle, it is impossible."

"Bring in the cradle," was Alfred's command to Doc Blair.

"Mister Field, you can't bring that thing in hyar. Some of you all will get your legs cut off. You can't get it through the door nohow. We couldn't get it in the top wagon. We had to take the farm wagon."

On the lawn near the front door reposed an old fashioned cradle for reaping grain, such as farmers used before the horsepower reapers came into use—a hand cradle with rusty scythe and hickory fingers.

Alfred called at a cabinet maker's and ordered a cradle made to order. The rockers must be pointed and have plenty of circle so it would not overset easily. The German agreed to have the cradle completed by Saturday.

Sunday was selected as the day to introduce baby Field to the soothing influence of a cradle. Alfred advised "All you have to do is sit near it. You can read or sew. Just gently push the cradle with your foot. You can have a rope reaching to your bed. If the baby gets restless at night all you have to do is hold on to the rope."

Alfred insisted that Eddie, the father, learn to sing the old nursery song, the inspiration of which was the sugar trough cradle Alfred was rocked in:

Rock-a-bye baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bow bends cradle will fall,
Down comes baby, cradle and all.

Pearl claims it was the singing of this lullaby or the attempts of Eddie to sing it, that spoiled Field's disposition.

The cabinet maker certainly misunderstood Alfred's specifications as to the construction of the cradle. Aunt Tillie declared she would not have it in the house. Pearl named it "Noah's Ark." When baby was laid in the cradle he appeared as but a speck. When Alfred essayed to rock it to show the others how, baby howled with fear. Alfred swore if they had known anything or consulted him they would have ordered the cradle before the baby came, put him into it on arrival, then he would have gotten used to it by this time. "Now you'll have trouble breaking him to the cradle. Every baby should be cradle-broke as soon as they are born." Aunt Tillie again reminded Alfred the baby was not a colt.

"The cabinet maker was ordered to make a cradle, not a life raft. I didn't order but two rockers. I never ordered it that big. Do you think I'm a fool. I know what a cradle is."

"Well, you don't call that thing a cradle, do you?" inquired Aunt Tillie.

"Well, it's as near as you will get to one, people don't know nothing about babies or cradles in these days."

The cradle, with its three rockers and six sharp points and a big old fashioned rocking chair with four more pointed rockers, made the baby's room a storage place for ancient instruments of torture.

The night was a wild one, winds without, colic within. Eddie knew the route to the paregoric.

After the first combat with the rocker Eddie swore it would have to go or he would. He felt he had a chance with the rocking chair, but with six points more against him he balked. "Besides nearly breaking my neck, I broke the paregoric bottle and got glass in my feet."

The Wreck

Doc and Alfred sorrowfully bore the cradle to the chicken house and it has become a receptacle for old carpets and other rubbish.

Aunt Tillie said: "Well, you boasted Field would have something no other baby in this section had and you made good—nothing like that cradle was ever seen in this section. I wonder what you will think of next to squander your money on?"

When the cradle is referred to Alfred flares up. "I've had three or four offers for it lately. I expect a man here to look at it tomorrow. Don't you dare to break it up to make chicken coops with. I'll get three times as much as I paid for it just as soon as sensible people who are raising a baby learn I have a cradle. Some smart man will start a cradle factory, and he'll get the money, too."

All the common sense suggestions offered by Alfred were rejected. He volunteered to walk the floor with baby while he was cutting teeth.

"No, sir, no, sir, I will not permit you to walk the floor with him while he is cutting his teeth. You walk the floor with him when he is teething, when he grows up the dentist will have to carry him around the office before working on his teeth."

"Don't ride him backwards. He will be bald. Riding backwards is the cause of half the baldness in the world."

Nurse had a schedule by which baby's cries were timed. Lung expansion was necessary. Crying was essential to lung expansion, exercising his voice Field made a new schedule. He was on time; in fact, he worked overtime. He cried by sun time, that is, he began by sun time and quit by any time. He cried until George Washington's portrait turned its face to the wall, the dogs howled, and the cream soured.

Notwithstanding, the baby of these days is raised after the automatic drop-a-nickle-in-the-slot manner, it is surprising how they thrive. He was a tiny, human toy a little while back; now he is the autocrat of the house, the absolute boss. Riding or driving, walking or autoing—he is first. He sits at the head of the table. If he desires aught, his desires are gratified. It is only those who have crossed the apex and begun the descent on the other side, that can realize how quickly children—the baby of yesterday, becomes the head of the house, ruling all with love. Field will be a year old the first of the month. He will have a birthday party; there will be a cake and one candle. Aunt Tillie will have a birthday party for Uncle Al soon. When she asked his age that she might order the candles to decorate the cake, he answered, "Just make it a birthday party, not a torch light procession like Ollie Evans had on his birthday."

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The inner man, like the negro, is born white, but is colored by the life he lives; but not one is so black they have not felt humbled and rebuked under the clear and open countenance of a child. Who has not felt his impurities the more that he was in the presence of a sinless child?

You have probably seen one whom some low vice has corrupted, one who is the aversion of man and woman, make of himself a plaything for a rollicking crowd of children, enter into their sports in a spirit that made his countenance glow with a delight, as though only goodness had ever been expressed upon it.

You have seen another—a genteel person, cold and supercilious—endeavor to make himself agreeable to children, court their favor, win their fancy. You have seen the child draw back and shrink in undisguised aversion. I have always felt there was a curse upon such a person.

Better be driven from among men than disliked by children and dogs. One is as instinctive as the other.

It is a delicate thing to write of one's self. It grates on one's feelings to write anything derogatory and may be redundant to write praise. I have endeavored to watch myself go by. To those who have followed me thus far, to those who have been my friends, to those who are my friends, to all mankind who despise hypocrisy and love human beings and dogs, I commend myself in