"Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will be patient with us a few moments. The trouble is just this: We brought the Phonograph over here in an open wagon, and as the weather has been cold and damp, and we forgot to keep the thing blanketed, it took a severe cold, which seems to have settled on its lungs, rendering it unable to speak above a whisper. But with your kind indulgence we hope to doctor it up and be ready to give you a nice exhibition in a few moments."
Of course I expected our audience to laugh at and ridicule the idea of its taking cold, and was surprised that not a single person cracked a smile, but, on the contrary, every one seemed to gaze at the instrument with a look of sympathy.
When I returned to my partner, who was still trying to fix it, he was nervous and showed much agitation, and said:
"Oh, what a relief. I would have sunk through the floor if you had announced what you said you were going to."
"Do you think you can fix it?"
"It don't look like it. Say, Johnston, suppose you deliver that lecture on Photography?"
"On Telegraphy, you mean."
"Oh yes, Telegraphy. Go ahead."