The bruised and wondering man was taken like a prisoner, according to instructions, before the owner of the show next day. Mr. Forepaugh’s attitude was that of a judge on the police court bench. A withering frown was on his face.
“You’re a nice specimen to hire out as a driver,” he observed severely, “you were so drunk you fell off the wagon. You are discharged. I can’t tolerate intoxication with my circus. It’s fortunate you were not killed and the horses didn’t run away.”
The effects of drink and the blow he received had driven memory from the unfortunate man’s brain, and as Mr. Forepaugh perceived it a load was lifted from him. He talked kindly but firmly to the penitent before him, dwelt on the evils of intemperance and finally offered him a day’s pay if he would promise not to drink liquor for a year. The pledge was solemnly given and, I have been told, the man was ever after consecrated to sobriety.
A good story is told by a former press agent of one of the big circuses of how Samuel D. Clemens (Mark Twain) was out-humored at his home in Hartford, Conn., by an untutored savage. The enterprising agent decided it would be a good advertisement to get an interview between Mr. Clemens and one of the Indians who were then a feature of the show. He called on the humorist and laid the matter before him. Mr. Clemens said that he didn’t care for the Indians, he was very busy, and didn’t see what Indians had to do with him, anyway.
“Why, the fact is,” replied the circus man, “they have heard of you in the far West and want to see you.”
Still Mr. Clemens was indisposed to grant the request until the press agent swore solemnly that a big Sioux Chief had said that he would never die happy, if compelled to return to his reservation without seeing and speaking with the man whose fame was world-wide.
“All right,” finally assented the humorist. “Have him here at six o’clock this evening, but make it short.”
Mr. Clemens sat on the broad porch of his home in Farmington avenue at the appointed time. The house was a fine, long, rambling red brick structure standing near the top of a green breezy hill. To the astonishment of the man he perceived an immense cavalcade of mounted warriors, more than half a hundred of them, tearing along the broad, airy boulevard in a mad exhibition of horsemanship. They swept in on the lawn, breaking down the shrubbery, wearing off the grass and devastating the whole place like a destroying army. A crowd of boys were at their heels, trampling flower beds and shrubs. The spokesman of the party was a mighty hunter who had been previously told that Mark Twain was famous for his slaughter of wild beasts.
The Indian laid himself out for a game of brag. The interpreter, who was in the deal, instead of repeating what the chief said, made a speech of his own, extolling Twain’s literary achievements.