The genial landlord received me kindly, but said I had arrived at a bad season. The town was financially dead, the factories had shut down, and a thousand stomachs were empty. I corrected him; there were a thousand and one, and, ascertaining the shortest route to the dining-room, I gave him proof that I was right.
After supper I felt in good spirits. I had sold sufficient chromos on the way from Harlem to land here with five dollars in pocket, and soon after my arrival, one man bought all the pictures I had left, seven of them, for which he paid two dollars. So, although weary in body, I retired that Saturday night with some sense of relief in knowing I possessed the funds to keep myself and partner over the Sabbath.
A general inspection of my donkey next morning revealed the fact that he was badly "stove up," and the probability that I would be detained in consequence several days. If I ever had the blues, I had them then. A veterinary, Dr. Skitt, was summoned; he bandaged two legs, covered twenty square inches of donkey with court-plaster, and strapped a new boot on the animal's off fore leg. On returning to the hotel, I notified the landlord that I should be his guest very likely several days on account of my steed's crippled condition; I said I proposed to give a lecture Tuesday evening to defray my extra expense, and asked him if I could have the dining room for the purpose.
"Can you fill the hall?" asked the proprietor.
"Full as a kit of mackerel."
"But I have only a hundred chairs," he apologized.
"Hire two hundred of an undertaker," I suggested, "and I will defray all other expenses of the funeral."
It was a go. I then worded a handbill and hurried with it to a printer.