From which I judged she was acquainted with the implements and process of hog killing, and that it was time for me to leave. I slipped out of the house speechless, made my way to the hotel, and vowed this was the last time I would ever pose as a corn doctor.
That evening the landlord, or the hotel clerk, or whoever was running the caravanserai I stopped at, got me in a corner, and before the interview was ended I was broke. Not only broke, but dead-broke. By that time he had heard of some of the schemes I had worked, or tried to work, but worst of all a report had reached him of my late exploit as a corn doctor. After collecting all that was due him, completely emptying my pockets, he informed me that his hotel could shelter me no longer, and that if I wanted to avoid a coat of tar and feathers it would be well for me to leave the city on the first train. As an afterthought he handed me a letter, which had come for me to the hotel during my absence.
Through all my wanderings I had kept in pretty close touch with the old folks at home, and usually I was glad enough to receive a letter dated from the spot I loved so well.
But this made me mad rather than glad, and yet the tidings in it were pleasant enough. My sister was to be married soon, and sent an urgent request, backed by both father and mother, that I should return home in time for her wedding.
You can imagine my feelings. Here I was, hundreds of miles from home, without a cent in my pockets, or a roof in sight under which I might lay my head, and the folks at home were rejoicing in my prosperity and inviting me to a wedding.
Thus far my life had been a pretty stormy one. I had worked numberless schemes, visited towns by the hundred, and had experience by the cubic ton, but I had no money. By this time, too, I scarcely had decent clothes. When I began to figure the whole thing over, and thought of my sister’s approaching marriage, and how I would like to be there to see the old folks and all the neighbors, I tell you right now I was pretty blue.
It was, of course, an impossibility to get home, and I decided to write a letter telling them so, giving some plausible excuse if I could think of one, but the more I thought of my present condition the madder I got. I finally rose up and shook myself together.
“Look here, old boy,” I thought to myself, “this will never do. The world is large, other people are making a living in it, and more than a living. There is money enough going, and all that you want to do is to see that you get your share. Here goes.”
I took a start toward the office door, and it seems it was a relief to mine host.
“Hope you don’t go away mad,” he said, “but the fact is, I can’t afford to have a lynching party raid my hotel. Don’t tell anyone I warned you, but get out of sight as soon as possible. The wonder is the crowd is not here now.”