[PART 1.]
[On a Donkey's Hurricane Deck]
[CHAPTER I.]
Madison Square to Yonkers
By this hand, thou think'st me as far in the devil's book as thou and Falstaff, for obduracy and persistency. Let the end try the man.
A noisy, curious, gaping multitude was crowded about the Bartholdi Hotel, New York. It was just after the noon hour on Friday, November 27, 1896, the day on which I was to start on my long and memorable journey across the continent on a donkey. The corridors were filled with interested guests, the reception room held about a hundred of my friends who had come to bid me God-speed, and less than a hundred thousand people choked Madison Square and the streets leading into it.
I had agreed with a friend to forfeit to him five thousand dollars, in case I should fail to make a donkey trip from New York to San Francisco in three hundred and forty-one days, under the following conditions:
Start from New York City, without a dollar in pocket and without begging, borrowing, or stealing, procure a donkey, and, riding or leading the beast, earn my way across the continent to San Francisco, and register at its leading hotel within the schedule time. I must cover the whole distance with a donkey by road or trail only; announce in a prominent newspaper of New York my start, at least twenty-four hours in advance, and mention the hour, day, and starting point. Seated on a donkey, I must parade on portions of Broadway, Fourteenth and Twenty-third Streets, Fifth, Madison, and West End Avenues; both the donkey and I must wear spectacles, and I a frock-coat and "plug" hat, but, the latter to be discarded at pleasure when once across the Mississippi River, the coat to be worn to San Francisco.
I slyly suggested the two most absurd conditions, believing it would be easier to earn my way in the rôle of a comedian than in the garb of a serious-thinking, imposed-upon mortal. I reasoned that I should have to live on sensation and notoriety, and, perhaps, keep from starving by employing my wits. These reflections I kept to myself. My "friend" chuckled amusedly, doubtless picturing in his mind the circus I was about to provide.
Without delay I began the preparations for the asinine journey. After much troublesome searching, I managed with the help of Hennessy, a stable-keeper, and Dr. Moore, a veterinary surgeon, to secure an option on a small donkey at James Flanagan's sale stables. Macaroni was the animal's name, and the price to be paid was $25. Then I got our coachman to go among his friends to see if he could get hold of a coat—a Prince Albert—and stove-pipe hat. He succeeded admirably, and when I had ordered spectacles for myself and the donkey, I was ready for the trip. I reached the hotel on the appointed day at one o'clock, borrowed the donkey for my official start, sent him back to the stables, then went to the Reception Room. Among my friends awaiting were my "friend," the landlord of the hotel, a photographer who had taken a picture of me seated on the donkey a few days before, and had come to deliver the photos; and my attorney, for the Chief of Police had refused me a permit to parade on the streets, and threatened my arrest if I proved to be a public nuisance. I borrowed a pen and bottle of ink, and, after bowing a greeting to my friends assembled, set to work putting my autograph on the pictures, which I offered for sale at twenty-five cents.