“But listen. I went into a restaurant and, walking up to the waiter, said, ‘See here, my man, what do you charge for chickens?’ ‘Two dollars apiece,’ he replied. ‘What do you charge for eggs and bread and butter?’ I asked. ‘Four eggs for a dime and the rest thrown in,’ was his answer. ‘Give me the four eggs,’ said I; and would you believe it, the first egg I opened I found a chicken. There I was, one dollar and ninety cents ahead on the first clatter.
“Then I went around to a hotel to put up for the day, and I hadn’t more than registered when the strangest thing happened you ever heard of. All the victuals in the kitchen got into an argument. There was a piece of chicken on the shelf and it saw the Worcestershire sauce at the other end. Turning to the salt it said, ‘Will you please pass me that bottle of liniment, I’ve got the rheumatism;’ and that started the biggest kind of a fight. It was a regular rough and tumble affair, in which everybody took a hand except the syrup—that was too stuck up. The coffee was weak, and made a poor showing, but the sugar was rather sweet on it and turned in to help it out. The vinegar looked on with a sour, sarcastic air without interfering, and the pepper was so bitter at the whole crowd it just urged them all to fight the harder. The butter thought it was pretty strong and pitched in for a little fun, but they soon melted it. The cook stove, which was nursing a fire, watched the fight from its door, and was beginning to get pretty warm. The longer it looked at them the hotter it grew, until it couldn’t stand it any more and began to yell for the police. Oh, it was terrible. The cabbage came out with a swelled head, the potatoes were all mashed to pieces, the chicken got an awful roast, and there is no telling where the thing would have ended if a big Irish policeman had not just then appeared on the scene. I slipped out while he was attending to the fighters, and, going to the postoffice, found, thank heaven, that my remittances had arrived and for that reason I was able to do my whole duty tonight in patronizing this estimable institution.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, I appear before you in the capacity of auctioneer for this magnificent, double-decked, thoroughbred, high-stepping, copper-bottomed, fast-sailing, number one church cake, warranted not to pinch in the armholes, pull apart in the seams, or show the stains of grease, gravy, petroleum or lard oil. One bite of this cake is a revelation, and two insures a dream.”
After going on this way I asked for bids, but no one would say a word or start the cake. They seemed to be backward about speaking. At last I said: “You all know, in selling goods at auction, that it is customary to take winks for a bid, but perhaps that won’t do in this case. No, a wink won’t do, but I’ll tell you what will, and that is, a smile. If you don’t care to wink, or talk, just look at me and smile and I’ll catch the meaning all the same.”
Naturally, this puckered the majority of mouths for a smile at the very outset, and beginning that cake at one dollar, two dollars, three dollars, four dollars, etc., I ran it rapidly up to sixty dollars. I kept up a running fire of jokes, and every time I caught a smile on a pair of lips I would yell an extra dollar bid. Then I said: ‘Sixty dollars, last call. Once, twice, three times, sold to —’ I got that far, but in the rush which followed my voice could not possibly have been heard. The way those women scattered was a sight to see.
They were frightened, because every one had smiled at some part or other of the harangue, and there was great fear I had accepted that smile for a bid and would compel some one of them to take that cake. So they fled, pell-mell, to the different corners of the hall, and I was much afraid they would never stop until they had reached home.
When, however, peace was restored, I explained that it was all a joke, and they came back with such looks of relief on their faces that I had to laugh myself. The cake was offered a second time, and finally knocked down to a bona fide purchaser at ten dollars and twenty cents. Amid much cheering I retired from the stand, the hero of the hour.
If there was no immediate profit in this, there was pleasure and practice, and I went to my hotel tolerably well satisfied with the way I had spent the evening. The next day, as I had hoped, I heard from the doctor.
He told me in his letter that he had forwarded me a supply of the Goldentine Pens, and several other articles which he thought I could manage. He also gave an outline of the way he thought they could best be handled; and after looking the articles over I determined to follow his suggestions, adding some amendments of my own. As the business at the church fair had given me some little reputation, I thought I could not do better than begin operations that very evening.
Since then, when engaged in street faking, I have generally had with me a musical assistant or two. Nothing will draw a crowd quicker than a few vigorous plunks on a banjo, or the squeak of a fiddle played “well up in G.” Not having such an assistant, I was fortunate enough to be able to secure some local talent.