INTRODUCTION.
The old adage, “An open confession is good for the soul,” has no bearing on my case. I did not write this book to ease my conscience; but of my own free will, for my own amusement—and for yours, too, I trust. I am going to tell you how I made my money.
I will acknowledge in the outset that I was a fakir of the fakirs, a Simon-pure article. Today I occasionally run across an old acquaintance, who greets me with an admonishing grin, and the apostrophe, “Look at the airs he puts on now; and I can remember when he hadn’t two dimes to rub together.”
Yes, my friend, your memory serves you right, but now I have my compensations. I can take my ease among the luxuries of a comfortable home; I can lean back on the cushions of a brougham, as neat a turnout as you will see on the Central Park drive; I can occupy a box at the opera, or finger my bank-book, in which the figures are comfortable, and the balance on the right side.
It was ambition for wealth which drove me out in the world, to look about and hustle; and I acknowledge freely that hustle I did, in the fullest sense of the term.
What have I done?
Rather, what have I not done along the lines of a fakir’s avocation? I believe at various times I have handled everything sold on the road. In giving you the arguments and methods employed in my different canvasses I have drawn solely from actual experience and observation, and endeavored as explicitly as possible to show how I overcame every obstacle and objection, and attained a flattering degree of success.
For obvious reasons, an accredited fakir would stand no show in running for public office; but he runs for everything else in sight, and allows the public offices to take care of themselves. In general, he is a happy-go-lucky chap, who sleeps with one eye open, and dreams of 200 per cent. profits. He is a solid, windy bluff; an unscrupulous, honest trader; a rollicking, sober fellow; a truthful prevaricator; a generous absorber of money; a free dispenser of advice; a necessary adjunct to a circus, and not always thrown away at a church fair. He is the profitable terror of the hotel proprietor, the mash of the same proprietor’s daughters, and the life of a friendly game of draw; always ready to shovel snow in July, or mow a blue grass lawn in January, if he can, as he certainly will, make his account out of such occupation. To summarize, he is a bundle of contradictions—easy, yet hard to understand; overflowing with the milk of human kindness, but professionally hard as rocks. In the way of business, no game is too high or too low for him to fly at or swoop down upon.
The life of a fakir is not easy sailing. He strikes many a stumbling block along the road, and is hampered by many a disadvantage. He can have no continuous abiding place. He must move with the tide, and shift his operations from day to day. The business of this week will be the reminiscence of next. New fields, new customers, new fakes; for these he must be constantly on the alert, and work them to the most extreme limit. While on the road he is practically a citizen without a country and a man without a home.
This book is not launched upon the sea of public approval as a literary gem. It is merely an expose of the tricks and triumphs of twenty years of successful faking, and as such, without more words of explanation, allow me to present it.
The Author.
CHAPTER I.
STARTING OUT.
Becoming Ambitious—Leaving Home—Hotel Porter—Card Business—Lightning Rod Agent—The Accident—Twelve Glasses of Water.
I was born in the good old State of Illinois, my birthplace being on a farm just twenty miles out of Chicago. Here I lived until I was eighteen years of age. My father was fairly well fixed as a farmer and gave me as good an education, both classical and musical, as a country residence could afford. In those early days of my life the western half of the United States was virtually in its infancy, and all around me, in whatever direction the eye might turn, new enterprises were being launched with a view to development of the country. Reading of these created a desire on my part to see some of them, and perhaps take my humble part in the great work of building up the new side of the nation.
One day I would read of a new railroad building here; another day of a new town starting there. Fresh sections of the country were being opened up, with hundreds of channels and opportunities for making money. The glowing description of a hundred new Meccas, given by their sanguine projectors, worked my curiosity to a very high tension, and the more I thought of them the stronger grew my desire to get out in the world and see, and before I fairly knew it my mind was made up.
For eighteen long years (pleasant ones I must confess) I had lived on the farm, and had never so much as ridden on a railroad train. No wonder I thought it high time to get out and see with my own eyes what was going on in this great, round world, looking meantime for the niche in it which I was to fill.
One day I told father of my desires and intentions. He ridiculed my ideas, and, when that was of no avail, tried solid argument. He showed me that farming was an honorable and sure profession, and the life of the farmer one that was both pleasant and independent. He went on to say that if I remained with him I would grow up to be a respected citizen, and eventually become owner of the farm. If I aspired to political honors I could obtain almost anything I wanted. I could be a member of the district school board. At some later day I might be township trustee, or even reach the sublime position of a county commissioner.
But, no. The seed had been sown, and it was too late to pull up the sprouted plant. I wanted to travel and see something of the world. I was determined to have experience with and insight into the rugged, rough and rapid side of life—and I got it. I was just burning up with enthusiasm. I desired to move around, to expand, to go out and “hustle,” and grow rich myself, if I could.
I confess I hated to leave my parents and the good old home, though the conversation with my father showed me that his opposition would not be extreme. I lingered around for several days, unwilling to declare my positive intention, but awaiting some favorable opportunity and good excuse to cut loose from the ties of home.
Both came. I went out one day with father to build a shed for the chickens, and an argument arose as to the best way of proceeding. He wanted his way; I wanted mine. The controversy continued until father got mad and shoved me aside, calling me a d— fool.
It was the nearest approach to swearing I had ever heard him make. My chance had come. Picking up my coat, and facing my worthy lord, I said:
“Dad, I have the honor, sir, of being your son.”
With that I returned to the house. Three days later I left the farm.
On the morning of my departure I embraced my dear old mother and my sister, and accompanied by my father drove into “town.” We stopped at a place then known as lower State Street.
We conversed together for some minutes, he giving me the usual, good, fatherly advice, with a “God bless you, my son,” etc. At last he turned to go, and as he did so slipped a twenty-dollar bill into my hand, while I could see the tears starting in his eyes at what seemed to him almost an eternal parting. I watched the going of the good old man as far as I could see him, and those were the most unpleasant moments of my whole life. I believe, had I possessed the nerve, I would have taken the first wagon I could find going that way and returned home.
I was in for it, however, and having decided in my mind that I had to stick it out, this feeling soon wore off in the light of the strange sights and stranger fancies inspired in a pedestrian tour through the heart of Chicago.
My first desire was to become somewhat acquainted with the city. I was not yet worrying about “a job,” for I had plenty of money in my pocket. Including the twenty dollars given me by father, my store of wealth reached the almost fabulous amount of one hundred dollars, and I had a strong suspicion that before that could give out I would become a millionaire.
Being from the country, everything looked grand to me. I bought every fake that was in sight, and took in everything that came along. For days the revelry was high. Side-shows and museums charmed me. I listened to the patter of the street venders, allowing myself to be “worked” by every one of them. I patronized liberally the street musicians, and even dropped a little coin with the fortune tellers. For a time I lived in this kind of a fool’s paradise. Then I retired to my room and took an account of stock.
I found I had bought numerous kinds of soap, many bottles of cologne, and fewer of medicine that would cure every ailment ever heard of on earth. I had tin whistles galore, and all the useless knick-knacks under the sun.
I also had three dollars and eighty cents in cash. When this balance was struck I understood that it was time for serious work to begin. I threw away the whole batch of impracticable accumulations and began to hunt round for something to do.
After “looking around” all day, and meeting with many rebuffs, I succeeded in getting a job in a hotel as a sort of all-round rustler.
Being a strong country lad the heavy work all fell to my share; and I want to tell you right now that before the second day was over I fully realized what it was to be away from home, and thrown out into the world upon my own resources. I was made to handle heavy baggage, carry water and coal, and do a thousand other things for which my main capacity was strength and awkwardness.
I was guyed by every one and given nicknames of every sort. Some would call me “Sport;” others, “Snipes,” “Jiggers,” “His Nibs,” while all ordered me around as if I were really and truly a nobody, instead of the son of a well-to-do farmer not over twenty miles away.
I slept in a large inside room upstairs with the rest of the male help, which was all packed in together, colored, white and all. The other boys took it good naturedly, and I was forced to. My salary was the enormous sum of two dollars and fifty cents a week, which was increased a little by the “tips” I occasionally received. Unfortunately for me, the boys around the hotel taught me how to shoot dice, play poker and seven-up, and even flip-at-the-crack. At none of these games was I a success, and at the end of the month it was a certainty that I would be “busted.”
After a few months of this I was brought to my senses, however, and decided to quit the hotel business, since, for me, there was no money in it, and little prospect of promotion.
Traveling men had patronized the hotel quite liberally, and I had always marked them as a lot of jolly, happy-go-lucky fellows, whose every pocket seemed to be lined with gold. Ah, if I could only be one of them and get on the road! If some house would furnish me a line of samples and start me out, then I, too, could wear good clothes, have plenty of money, order some poor fools around in the way I had been ordered, and perhaps make my mark in the world. I thought then that the only man in the world was the drummer (and I think so yet for that matter).
Unfortunately, try as I might, I found no way to break into the ranks. The managers of every wholesale house I went to laughed at me. When I asked for a position the jobber would always inquire who I had been with and what I was doing at present. When I answered that I was first assistant porter and commander-in-chief of the water and coal conveying department of the Robber Roost Hotel, they would smile and say, “No, my son; I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything for you today.” You see, I had neither experience, reputation nor references.
In addition to my personal explorations I scanned the want columns of the daily papers, in the hope of finding something which would suit my case. One day I read the following ad.:
“Wanted—A young man to canvass and sell our new line of calling cards. Every lady wants them and buys them on sight. Large sample outfit free. $15.00 per week easily made.”
To make a long story short, I called at once and made arrangements with the firm to sell calling cards. In this way I received my first real start in life, and was initiated into the ranks of Fakirdom.
The nature of my arrangement with the card firm amounted to about this. They were to furnish samples, I was to solicit orders, collect cash as the order was taken, turn over half of the money to them, keeping the other half myself, and they were to fill orders as soon as possible.
Well, I started out the following morning, and I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. I went clear to the outskirts of the city and rang my first door bell.
The lady of the house answered in person, and when she faced me I had neither nerve nor courage to explain my business. I began to grow red in the face and nervous. I weakly asked for a glass of water, which I drank, and then departed. I had the same experience at the next house, and after drinking twelve glasses of water went back to my room, disgusted with myself and everybody else.
In the afternoon I screwed my courage up a few notches higher and went out again, with the determination to do or die. I knew I had a fine line of cards, and the boss told me they would sell themselves. I vowed that at least they should have a chance. I showed them to a few ladies, and finally succeeded in taking my first order, for twenty-five cents. With that I felt encouraged, and went after them right. I did one dollar and twenty cents worth of business that afternoon, making sixty cents for myself. Just think of it. A man in the heart of Chicago, with his fortune all to make, and after walking his legs off all day, coming in at night with sixty cents as his portion, and board to pay out of it at that.
But the ice had been broken; the plunge had been made, and I was proud and happy over the result. I stuck to the card business for some months, finally getting so I could make from one to two dollars a day at it.
One day I chanced to fall into conversation with a lightning rod agent, who had taken a room in the house where I boarded. In a short time we struck up quite a friendship, and he proposed that I should travel with him. In consideration of my services, which would be only in helping him put up the rods, he agreed to pay all my expenses, teach me the business, and allow me to sell calling cards on the side.
I accepted, and here let me say that I never fully realized what a truly typical lightning rod agent was until I started out with this man. I had heard of them, and remembered that my father was trimmed up to the tune of a couple of hundred dollars by one, but I never understood the breadth of intellect, fertility of resource and depths of trickery displayed in the legitimate pursuit of this vocation until I had obtained an inside view of the game.
I traveled with Mr. Carlysle for a long while, working the country, and the towns as we passed through them. As this is to be largely a record of my own personal performances, I shall not give the details of this trip, except that I learned all that was going, which was a great deal. At the end of it we were on our way to Davenport, Iowa. I was getting tired of the business, and intended to quit when we reached that destination. I had twenty-three dollars in cash to show for my seven months’ work, and figured on fixing myself up a little and looking for a job. I could not travel and sell calling cards exclusively, since there was not enough in it to justify the expense, and I thought it high time for me to look around for some broader and more profitable field.
Just as we got within a mile of the city our horse shied at a runaway team and Mr. Carlysle was thrown out of the wagon, run over, and both legs broken. He was taken into the city; and hotel, doctor and medicine bills broke us both as flat as anything you ever saw.
I tried to get a job, but could not find a thing. I was known as the lightning rod agent’s friend, and no one would have me at any price. It seemed as though every one there had a dread, or horror, of a lightning rod man and all his belongings. Mr. Carlysle was taken to the charity hospital, while I was turned out of the hotel to hustle the best I could.
Just imagine! There I was, a perfect stranger, not knowing a soul, hundreds of miles from home, without a cent in my pocket, and unable to get a thing to do.
Should I become a tramp, begging at back doors for handouts of broken victuals; or would it be best to starve and be done with it? One way or the other, it looked as though these questions would soon have to be settled.
