“I got up and begged for a new trial, but he was obstinate, and told me I ought to have better sense than to gamble in the dining room before all the guests.
“‘Gambling?’ said I.
“‘Yes, gambling,’ said he.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘how do you figure that out?’
“‘Why,’ answered he, ‘you had a tray full and you dropped your pile.’”
As I always picked out a landlord who was known to sometimes dally with the seductive jackpot, and knew, too, the value of a bob-tail flush, the story was sure to make a hit.
I would then go on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I was not afraid of exciting your sympathies I would sing you a sentimental song I have in my repertoire. It is so mesmeric in its nature and electrical in its action that I most generally like to leave it out, or until the last thing, for fear I might be overpowered like the rest of you. I sang it in Boonsville last week and nothing was good enough for me; and if they hadn’t needed them themselves I think they would have even taken off the old shoes from their feet to throw into the wagon. Silver? Silver wasn’t in it. They just filled this carriage with golden eggs, and they tossed me at least a hundred bouquets, each one tied to a brick. The title of this morceau is: ‘Biddy’s Got a Corn on Her Nose.’
As they always liked to laugh I kept the comic stories going, even if they were old and common property among the fakir fraternity. Perhaps I would go on in this fashion:
“I want to tell you of a little experience with my wife, a month before we were married. I had been calling on her for several years and she was the chilliest, most icy proposition you ever heard of. She never would let me kiss her. When I finally proposed she said: ‘I’ll marry you on one condition.’