"The pop-corn business, so strangely commenced, grew and prospered."—Page 16.
Comparative wealth seemed to be pouring in on me. In a measure, I was becoming not only a lad of means, but somewhat locally celebrated under the name of my adoption.
To account for my rapidly gaining money, it must be remembered that one bushel of shelled, makes eleven of popped corn. My profits were consequently in proportion, even if the whole trade of Chicago, in this thriftily manufactured commodity, had not been in my hands.
With the termination of my winter's sale of pop-corn which closed, I may state, with gratification, with as much gain for the good Mr. Dobbs as for myself, I had again to think of employment. Luckily, the results of my two accidents were now entirely healed, and although I could scarcely have risked appearing yet in the circus, I saw no reason to preclude me from going behind the footlights. After some difficulty, theatricals being less overstocked then, than now, I obtained an engagement at Rice's, latterly known as MacVicker's Theatre.
It was here decided that comic business was my "line," and the public, not unnaturally, were more than kind to one whom pop-corn had made a sort of favorite.
However, it was not until the following winter that a positive success rewarded me in my new profession. I had been offered an engagement by Langrish and Atwater, of Wisconsin, and accepted it. This was when I had nearly reached the rawly ripe age of sixteen. These managers gave me every chance of displaying what talent I chanced to have. Not only were such parts as Ragged Pat and the Irish Tutor intrusted to me, but I shone also with, I now suspect, a somewhat doubtful light in "The Flying Dutchman," "The Spectre Bridegroom," "Nick of the Woods," and "Ten Nights in a Bar-room." Irishman, Dutchman, Cockney, Yorkshireman, and Yankee all came indifferently to my share.
Bright visions of future reputation as a legitimate actor began to rise upon me; but at the close of this season, the difficulty of procuring another engagement forced me to become a theatrical Arab in Yankee Simpson's travelling company.
After a brief wandering under their tent, I dissolved my connection with it, and returned to my last year's Eldorado—Chicago. The reason for my taking this step, it is unnecessary to put in print. The theatrical profession will readily divine it, when they are told that shortly after, I formed a not unimportant member of a joint-stock travelling company, which for the next six months ran through Illinois and Wisconsin. We had reached Racine, in the latter State, when our co-operative speculation came to a sudden end. One morning, on quitting our virtuous couches, we found that the bed on which our treasurer reposed had not been tenanted. The vagabond had "absquatulated" with the whole of the joint-stock funds.
Here was a situation for the future Forrests, Placides, Broughams, and Jeffersons of the American stage—for, as such, we considered ourselves. We were "dead broke."