I think I had a presentment of failure, and presentments are not things to be trifled with. Surely, nothing ever fell quite so flat as that night’s work. We had to procure a license, we had to put up five dollars in advance on the hall rent, our hotel bill was of respectable proportions, there were other incidental expenses—and we gave no show at all. There was no gang at the door that night, no rush for the front seats, no audience, no money, no nothing. A dozen boys and men presented themselves at the door, but the most of them were dead-heads. They filed dismally into the hall, and filed more dismally out again. The “house remained dark” after all. The Miltons concluded that it was more profitable to dismiss the audience and immediately “skip by the light of the moon” than to remain and wrestle with such complications as the balance of the hall rent, the hotel bill, and other like troubles which fate might send them.
Though the venture had made considerable inroad on our capital, I cannot say that I was particularly cast down, being full of that exhilaration which comes from the ability and the right to say, “I told you so.” I objected, moreover, to the shirking of a bill which we had the means to pay without its causing us any serious financial embarrassment. Also, I was interested in the possible cause of our failure, which was a street fakir, whose harangue I had heard from the doorway of the hall, where I was in attendance.
Up to this time any little efforts I had made upon the lines which I have so long followed with such great success, had been addressed to the individual rather than to the crowd. I had heard street talkers, to be sure, but had never analyzed their methods, or thought seriously of following the profession.
I had wit of my own, however, and from the moment this fellow set up his stand I recognized the finger of destiny, and made the most of my opportunity. He was an orator in his way, and I can not do better here than to give the sum and substance of a discourse which put much money in his purse, and wrecked the Milton Theatrical Combination.
He was selling pens.
The article was good enough of its kind, and one probably familiar to the reader. It was brass, but looked like gold, and so flexible that it could stand any sort of abuse, except continuous writing, without being harmed in the least.
He had his little folding, three-legged stand, a torch, and a rough piece of board. He would rub the point of the pen up and down and jab it into the rough surface of the board, spread the points apart, put them together again, and then, filling it with ink, write and shade as artistically as you please. All the time he was so maltreating the poor pen he was keeping up a running fire of talk:
“Hey there, everybody! Come right this way. There is plenty of time. The show won’t open for half an hour, and meanwhile I want the chance to do you good. I would like to give away lots of money—fives, tens, twenties, fifties—everything up to a hundred dollar bill. I’m a down-town, Eastern Yankee millionaire, and I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. If you’ll lend me your attention for a few moments I’ll make every mother’s son of you rich and happy—in your mind at least.
“Here is a little article known as the automatic, Goldentine pen. It reads, writes and talks in sixty-four different languages, and is one of the handiest little articles you ever gazed on.
“It is small, gentlemen, but one of the toughest little staples that was ever brought into the world to bless mankind.