“I am journeying toward Cincinnati. I am a theatrical man, and play there to-morrow night.” I was a young man then, and fond of avowing my profession.
“Oh, indeed! Your face seemed familiar to me as you entered the car. I am confident we have met before.”
“I have acted in almost every State in the Union,” said I. “Mrs. Florence and I are pretty generally known throughout the north-west.”
“Bless me?” said the stranger in surprise, “I have seen you act many times, sir, and the recollection of Mrs. Florence’s ‘Yankee Girl,’ with her quaint songs, is still fresh in my memory.”
“Do you propose remaining long in Columbus?”
“Yes, for seven years,” replied my companion.
Thus we chatted for an hour or two. At length my attention was attracted to a little, red-faced man, with small sharp eyes, who sat immediately opposite us and amused himself by sucking the knob of a large walking stick which he carried caressingly in his hand. He had more than once glanced at me in a knowing manner, and now and then gave a sly wink and shake of the head at me, as much as to say, “Ah, old fellow, I know you, too.”
These attentions were so marked that I finally asked my companion if he had noticed them.
“That poor man acts like a lunatic,” said I, sotto voce.
“A poor half-witted fellow, possibly,” replied my fellow-traveller. “In your travels through the country, however, Mr. Florence, you must have often met such strange characters.”