Twenty years a fakir

by S. James Weldon

Our own interests were not forgotten. They seemed about that time to be tangled up with those of the church, and the way we gathered orders, both at the entertainments and in the outside canvass, kept my artist working night and day, and very nearly strained my ability.

In anticipation of the step, I had headed my troupe on the second evening of our stay in the place, which happened to be Sunday, and we all filed into church together. Our exhibitions, while lively and interesting, were all of the most unobjectionable order, and in every way I worked it so that we would seem, as we were, worthy of the support of the best people.

At the outset it seemed a foregone conclusion that a Miss Kitty Kneilson would carry away the palm. She was so far ahead at the close of the second evening of voting that I was afraid interest might slacken and the receipts fall off. The next evening there happened, altogether by chance, something I would never have thought of, and if I had would scarcely have dared to suggest.

Some innocent, scatter-brained, harum-scarum young fellow dropped a vote in the box inscribed with the name of “Claude Maxwell.” When that name was read out there was a roar through the house, and I was afraid there was going to be trouble. Claude Maxwell was a very estimable young gentleman, but he belonged to that class who from their fair appearance, exact dress, and mincing manners are sometimes called dudes. He was bright, big-hearted and full of life, but every one recognized the joke, and there was a clapping of hands, and much laughter, before it was thought how Maxwell might take it.

All doubt on that score was removed by the young gentleman himself, who arose in the seat, somewhere near the front, a smile on his features, and made a profound bow.

With that the game was started. Maxwell had any quantity of friends among the young folks, and they all seemed seized with a sudden desire to “josh” him. The next moment the tellers announced “Ten more votes for Claude Maxwell.” Some one had thrown in a dollar to keep the joke going.

I understood that Miss Kneilson was the more affronted of the two; but as she belonged to the church, and both she and Maxwell were members of the choir, her friends convinced her that nothing better could have happened. Before long she was enjoying the contest as much as anybody.

You cannot imagine the interest and the amount of money that can be drawn into such an affair at times, when the contest grows close and the people are excited. When the musicians played the Marseillaise on the last night there were a few hundred folks worked up to a fever heat, and had it not been announced beforehand that the voting would cease precisely at ten o’clock I have an idea that fifty dollars more might have been taken in that evening. The polls closed precisely on the stroke, and just a moment before a five-dollar bill was slipped in, which secured the picture for Claude Maxwell by a majority of five.

Amid much laughter and cheering Mr. Maxwell arose to his feet and bowed his smiling thanks to the audience.

Not at all abashed by the screams of the audience the young man proceeded to say that while, for the good of the church in which he and the other contestants were so deeply interested, he had been willing for the matter to proceed, yet he had never for a moment actually contemplated appropriating the prize to himself. He therefore took great pleasure in presenting the beautiful work of art to the real choice of the assemblage, Miss Kitty Kneilson.