I had registered, of course, and the next morning before I had finished my breakfast I was waited on by the editor of the local newspaper, who took me to his office, a barnlike structure next door, for an interview. Almost immediately a handsome youth in knickerbockers and high laced boots came hurriedly in.
“I think I ought to tell you, Miss Tarbell,” he said with a grin, “that you are in for a serenade.”
“A serenade,” I said, “what do you mean?”
“Well,” he said, “the Tulsa boomers have been making a tour of cities to the north. Their special train has just come in; they want something to celebrate, and, learning that you were in town they are sending up the band to welcome you. They want a speech.”
I had never made an impromptu speech in my life. I was horrified at the idea. “You must get me out of this,” I begged of my gallant but very amused informer.
“No,” he said, “there is no way to escape. Here they are.”
And there they were—a band of thirty or forty pieces, several of the players stalwart Indians.
I had to face it, and for once in my life I had a happy idea. “Go buy me two boxes of the best cigars that are to be had in town.” And I shoved a bill into his hand. “Go quickly.”
And then the band began. Not so bad, but so funny. There I was standing on the sidewalk with all the masculine inhabitants of Tulsa—so it seemed to me—packed about, some of them serious and some of them highly delighted at my obvious consternation. I had not guessed wrong about the cigars. They preferred them to a speech, I saw as I passed around the circle distributing them to the players. What was left I gave to the bodyguard which had assembled to back me up. A compliment I have always treasured was given by one of the Indians, as he watched me disposing of my goods: “He all right.” Still more flattering it was as I went around in Tulsa that day to meet gentlemen who had fat cigars tied with little red ribbons in their buttonholes, and to have them point gaily to them as I passed.
But the serenade was not the end of the celebration. That afternoon I was taken out in a barouche—the only one in the countryside, I was told—the band behind, and paraded up and down the distracted streets of Tulsa. A day or two later when I went on my journey, it was with a seatful of candy, magazines, books, flowers, everything that the community afforded for a going-away present. I never had been before nor have been since so much the prima donna.