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."