"Yes."
"And you were born there?"
"Of course, I was."
"Your father had a brother in this city?"
"I know he had."
"Then, I am that brother and your uncle. You know it, for you spoke to me only yesterday."
"Did I?" was my angry exclamation.
Making another bow to the Mayor, I turned and walked out, leaving my disgusted uncle to stare, and, if he was given to profanity, to swear after me.
The pop-corn business, so strangely commenced, grew and prospered. From my one small basket, it gradually extended itself. At last a regiment—or rather one small company of boys—with cans containing it, with the name of "Mose" painted on them, strapped upon their shoulders, sold pop-corn in the streets, the cars, the theatres, and the hotels. Why or how I came to take the name of "Mose," it is perhaps difficult to say. But I had commenced life in the Circus, when the "Mose" of Chanfrau was an universally quoted name throughout the country. It had been my name on the bills with Dan Rice, Older and Orton, and Levi North. Remaining in my memory, it probably stuck to me when I embarked in my new calling.