CHAPTER XIII.
Working the Saloon Keeper for an Extra Five—Alone Again—Arrested—Fighting the License—Sick—The Insurance Scheme—The Wheel and Cigar Dodge—The Stage Hold-Up—The Horse Doctor and Cholera—Cigars Two for a Nickel—Making a Preacher Swear.
Things went along apparently prosperous for some months, until the time to form engagements for the fall and winter came around, when my best people asked for a raise in salary.
At first I was inclined to grant it, for I liked the business, and, on the face of things, I ought to make a fortune.
But the briefest reflection told me that I would be entering on a new campaign, and like a wise and noble general I ought to sit down and figure out the cost.
After that, though it took time, it was not hard to come to a conclusion. I had been doing a thriving business, but I had the field all to myself, with very little opposition from regular exhibitions. The season was coming when the people in the towns which I would care to work might have a surfeit of amusement.
I discovered, also, that if my receipts had been large, so also had been my expenditures. I went on, figured out the profit, cost and loss and decided to quit right then.
While apparently doing a business that should have yielded a large surplus, my expenses were already so great that I was actually making less money than when traveling alone, while a few weeks of poor business, such as were liable at any moment to occur, would put me decidedly in the hole. I paid off all salaries to the end of the month, closed up my affairs, disbanded my company, and once more hit the road, solitary and alone.
After all the noise and rush of the past months, the first few weeks which followed were solemn, if not awful; but I stuck it out, found that the portrait line was as good as ever, and what I made was my own. I could visit towns which had been too small to stand the expense of the troupe, but were full to the brim of untouched business, which I worked after the same old style.
When a great battle is won by shrewd maneuvering they call it a splendid display of strategy; when a fakir carries his point in the same way it is branded as infernal trickery. Early in the battle of life I discovered that I would have to do a great deal of strategical maneuvering or starve; and I seldom failed, however well defended his front might be, to turn the flank of the enemy if it was at all unprotected, often snatching victory out of the very jaws of defeat.
Once, under peculiar provocation, I obtained an order from a saloon keeper for a nice crayon portrait of his wife. I had great hopes of getting an order for his own portrait also, and with that end in view, and being naturally of a generous disposition when I circulated among the boys, I spent about five dollars at the bar. When he turned me down in what I thought rather a bare-faced style, I set about getting even.
His wife was a pronounced brunette, with black, curly hair, bright eyes and clear-cut features, being an excellent subject for a portrait.
When the picture was finished it was really a very fine one, and taking it around to the saloon a day or two before I had promised delivery I asked his honor what he thought of it. He admired it immensely and was more than pleased.
“Well,” said I, “it may be a surprise, but this picture is not for you. The one you ordered is not finished yet, and this is done by a new process and for a particular purpose.”
“If that is not for me I’d like to know who it is for?” he asked, about as angry as he was surprised.
“For me,” I told him. “It is such a perfect picture, and such a splendid example of what the new art will do, and what a magnificent picture can be obtained for only ten dollars more, that the house has sent it to me to canvass with.”
You can believe that he got dead stuck on the picture and wanted it instead of the other. I asked him an increase of ten dollars for it, but compromised by accepting from him five dollars more than the original contract price. He never knew the difference, and I got back the money I had spent at his saloon.
Things went along swimmingly for some time. So successful had I been that I was feeling my oats all over, and expected to go right along through the winter, when I ran foul of a legal proposition, and learned the lesson that it takes money to buy justice; and though the law may be on your side it sometimes requires an awfully long time to reach it.
Every man who has traveled on the road has probably had more or less trouble about license; and the time arrived when I was to get my experience. I was arrested while soliciting in the portrait business, and was fined fifty dollars in a city court.
I was always rather a good fighter, anyway. I had what I thought at that time plenty of money, and my business life seemed to be at stake. Instead of paying that fine and letting the matter drop I took an appeal and vowed to follow the matter up. When, finally, the state supreme court affirmed the decision of the city court, and I still refused to pay, I found myself tight in jail, with a suspicion that I had to knuckle or remain there indefinitely.
I still had money to talk, and, as the frames were made in one state, I was traveling in a second, and was a resident of a third, there was little trouble in getting the case before the supreme court of the United States, though it did seem to me it took a terrible long time for that court to come to a decision on a very simple case.
When their opinion did come, however, it was in my favor, and reversed all the lower courts.
The justices held, in effect, that a man could not be taxed for simply making a living; that the license demanded from me had been an attempted piece of extortion, which was an usurpation of power for the officers to have sought to collect, when it was their duty to see that law and justice were secured to all.
It was further held that no state nor city could levy a tax on interstate commerce, in any form or guise, or on receipts derived from that transportation, or on the occupation or business of carrying it on.
Of course, this was a great victory for me—when it came—but it did not prevent me having some very uncomfortable months and a course of treatment which might have meant ruin to some.
Perhaps they mistook their man. Certainly the authorities only considered me as a thief and a vagabond from the very start, and were determined to show me that a fakir had no rights which they were bound to respect. I was arrested in the very harshest manner, and though a couple of citizens temporarily signed as my security, it was not long before I found myself in jail, where on entering I was stripped of my diamonds and all the loose money I had in my pockets, which last was quite a little sum. They appeared to want to make sure of the fifty dollars fine and costs, and if possible to prevent my having any money with which to fight the city in the courts and to make my stay in that jail as uncomfortable as possible. My treatment there was simply vile, and when I took a severe cold in an infernally bad cell, and through lack of attention the cold drifted into pneumonia, I began to believe there was a conspiracy to murder me. I think I would have died had it not been for some good ladies, who at that very moment were being sneered at for attempting to inaugurate practical Christianity by visiting those who were sick and in prison. They managed to see that I was nursed through to semi-convalescence, and made an effort to have my fine remitted and a discharge granted. The county attorney appeared against them, however, and as they were represented by a young man of more goodness than knowledge of law or eloquence their prayer was denied.
Feeling sure, then, that the city would remain obdurate, and that to remain longer in prison would mean death, I paid fine and costs under protest and crawled out to the free sunlight once more, “busted” in health and pocket, and only too glad to get out.
In the end, as I have told, I procured a decision of the United States court in my favor, and then my counsel came back on the city for damages, eventually settling with the authorities for a nice little sum. Long before that, however, I had largely recovered my health and spirits and was once more on the high road to prosperity.
When I came out of prison I was in no condition, financially, to long remain idle, for I had no idea of asking or receiving assistance from the folks at home. Nor was I in condition physically to do the exhaustive hustling I had been following for some years. I had to take up with something easy, and as I had no capital to speak of there was no time to pick and choose. I took up with the first thing which offered employment, and considered myself lucky that as a stranger in a strange place I was able to secure a position as solicitor for an insurance scheme, which was certainly as big a fake as any I had ever met with.
The “company” had been organized long enough to inspire some confidence and was doing a thriving business on the following scheme, which was just a variation of what has been called the “graveyard” plan.
Any man could pay in by installments within ninety days the sum of thirty dollars and have his life insured for one hundred, while on the day after the last payment he could draw out sixty dollars in cash, always provided he fulfilled faithfully certain conditions, the most important of which was that within thirty days he was to furnish two new members. Of course, the two new members had to do the same thing.
Some persons might think a fake like that could not win, but it did. Men with plausible tongues can start almost anything, and once get a scheme like this to going it soon grows into a regular epidemic. Where it would have ended I cannot say, had not the state insurance commissioner interfered, to the great disgust of the policy holders, who were willing and anxious each to put up the remainder of his thirty dollars in order that sixty might be drawn. The company made no great fight for life. It had been making big money while it lasted, paid its agents well, and dissolved with full pockets, leaving me improved in health, capital and general knowledge of what the world wanted and was willing to pay for.
When the insurance scheme gave out I jumped the town, because I knew the law was going to step in, and I had enjoyed my fill of legal entanglements and didn’t want any more. With what money I had I went down the road about twenty miles to a little station called B——. The first thing I did was to put up at the only hotel there was in town. I asked the landlord what his rates were. He took me into the dining room and showed me two tables; one was covered with white cloth and the other with Turkey red. Pointing to the white he said, “If you eat at this table it will cost you two dollars a day and you get cake every meal, but if you eat over there with the boarders it will cost you three dollars per week, but you don’t git no cake.” I played the red for a week and came out all right; but, oh, such a hotel. It was while here looking for some light outdoor work that I fell in with a traveling horse doctor. He had a scheme of his own and was working it to the queen’s taste. I suspect that I knew more about horses than that doctor, but that is neither here nor there. He claimed to have a sure cure for hog cholera. I told him my predicament and he took me along.
His plan of treatment was to catch a hog, give him a hypodermic injection close to the tail and then turn him loose. Charges were ten cents per head.
There was cholera all around the neighborhood and for about four months we did a nice business. One day, though, a large drove of hogs we had just operated on suddenly took sick and died. The doctor heard of it in time and skipped. So did I, and we went in different directions. The last thing he did before we parted was to hand me three ten-dollar bills, and I was on earth once more.
Here I was, adrift again, with a little money, but my health not at all restored and my case before the supreme court of the United States still hanging fire. I looked around for some light, open-air business and invested in a wheel of fortune, some cigars and a license to run the thing.
Probably the reader is familiar with the instrument, though it is not so much in evidence now, I believe, as it was in those days. The anti-gambling laws of many of the states have made it a less profitable investment.
This wheel had six rows of numbers, from one to five, encircling it. I charged five cents a turn and guaranteed a prize every time. For number one I gave one cigar, for number two two cigars, and so on up to number five.
Even if a man would win five cigars, which did not occur often, I was not dangerously hurt, as I bought my stock low down, the average profits on the thousand being an enormous per cent.
There was not “big money” in the wheel, but for a small venture the returns were pretty fair, and with it as a companion I wandered over a wide range of country, recovering my health, seeing the world and gaining more experience. A little adventure in the west will give you an idea of the sort of thing I was apt to meet with.
I took the stage for the small town of Gurnsville, and when I arrived all was excitement on account of a wagon circus which was showing there. I had not struck the show before, but imagined I was going to turn a pretty penny off the crowd which would be in attendance.
To my disgust I found the authorities were not going to allow anything that even looked like gambling. Circuses have an unholy reputation for fleecing the public with all sorts of catch games, and the city had resolved that the innocents should be protected, and reserved for the faro banks and keno tables of the town, of which I understood there were more than a sufficient supply usually in full blast. I could not get a license to run my wheel of fortune with cigars.
In those days the majority of the citizens of Gurnsville, if they smoked, used pipes. A cigar was considered to be the mark of a dead-game sport, for the cheapest thing you could get was fifteen cents, or two for a quarter. The storekeepers and merchants had pooled their issues to a certain extent and united in a sort of trust to keep up prices. Wages were high, so they could ask big prices, not only for cigars, but for everything else.
I had about three thousand cigars with me and did not want to lose the day, so I took out a license to sell on the street in the ordinary manner. About this time I was more particular about the license than before or since. I rented a small glass case and opened a stand right near the show grounds.
I assorted the cigars, putting the light colored ones on one side and the dark on the other. The medium shade I also separated. The light ones I sold two for five cents, the dark ones five cents each, and the medium ones for ten and fifteen cents. They were all of the same quality and cost the same price, being as low an article as I could find that had a half-way decent outside.
When the crowds began to gather about the tents, long before the hour for opening the doors, I yelled at the top of my voice, “Right this way. Two fine cigars for five cents.”
People there had never paid less than fifteen cents for one cigar, and the idea of getting two for a nickel excited them. They fairly ran over each other in getting to the case.
If a straggling fellow would come up with his “best gal” on his arm I would call his attention to the better goods in the case. Of course, rather than give his girl the impression he was close-fisted, and bought cheap cigars, he would flip me a twenty-five-cent piece and take two for a quarter. I sold out those three thousand cigars slick and clean, and was sorry I had not a few thousand more. The result almost convinced me that legitimate business beats gambling every time. I went away with about three times as much money as I could possibly have had had they allowed me to run my little old wheel of fortune.
That was doing pretty well, but see how pride goes before a fall. Having sold out, and having a pretty fair little sum of money in my pockets, I decided to turn my face from the frontier and seek a locality where I could get into something which would more rapidly add to the small fortune I had accumulated. I paid my fare and traveled like a gentleman. The stage coach in which I journeyed was held up by road agents and I was robbed of every cent I had, except the loose change in my pockets. In consideration of my semi-clerical garb, I suppose, they made no search of my person after I had handed out my wallet. In that way I saved my ticket—which included both stage and railway transportation to my destination, which was a small city, where I expected to do some business—and a few dollars in silver.
I may say here that I never saw my wheel of fortune again. I had supposed it was stowed in the boot of the stage, but when I got off it was not there. The driver promised to start it for Munro on the next stage out after he got back, but it never reached me. It seems it was started all right, though, but the stage went over the rocks at a bad place in the road and both were helplessly wrecked, while one of the horses was killed on the spot. Fortunately, there were no passengers.
When I reached Munro on the train I met with a little adventure. It so happened that a big revival meeting was in progress at the place and an outside minister was expected to arrive on my train, who was to assist the local ministers with the meeting.
Naturally, one of the members came to meet the brother; and naturally, again, he took the daily hack which regularly met the train, since it was about a mile and a half from the station to the town.
I was the only passenger to get off, and as I had a smooth-shaven face and wore a Prince Albert coat the deacon supposed I was his man. He rushed up, greeted me cordially, grasped my grip and invited me into the hack.
I, naturally thinking he was a hotel runner (in these God-forsaken places everyone wears such a forlorn and melancholy look that it is hard to distinguish a preacher from a porter), followed without resistance.
We started off at a good gait, the way was rough, and the driver in a hurry. We were the only passengers and sat on the same seat, the front one being occupied by my valise and various packages which seemed to be in care of the driver. Time after time, as the wheels struck a particularly bad spot, my companion and I were jammed together.
Whenever this happened he would turn to me with what seemed to be a surprised and aggrieved frown on his face and say:
“Look out, brother. Stop, stop.”
Finally, after a particularly big lurch, he said positively:
“See here, now, I want you to quit.”
As I was to blame no more than he for these little, unpleasant accidents, I could not understand his taking them so seriously, but I noticed that he kept getting redder in the face and madder the further we traveled.
At first I took it for a local joke and tried to laugh it off, but the more I laughed the madder he grew.
The hack was going at a rapid rate, and on turning sharply an angle in the road we were jammed into each other more savagely than ever.
This time he jumped up as quick as a flash, his eyes blazing with rage, and let forth such a torrent of words that he cut large holes in the air. Whew! He gave me the worst tongue-lashing I ever got in my life, beating the oration of a mother-in-law. Even she would not have used the language he did, for it was scientifically applied and too strong for ordinary use.
By this time I began to smell a mouse, and, taking things calmly, induced him to explain. Then I made an investigation.
I had in my pocket a file, which I used to regulate my street torch. The point of it had worked out, and every time we were jammed together he would catch it in his side. The last time it caught him stronger than ever, causing his extreme outburst.
He looked from my face to the file, and then from my face to the file again.
Then, to my surprise, he suddenly covered his face with his hands and burst into a flood of tears. I have heard men cry, both before and since, but never a strong man weep like he did.
It did not turn me against him, but, on the contrary, I tried to console him, and so his story came out. He was a reformed man, who kept violent passions under control only by the greatest effort; and to him it seemed he had sinned beyond pardon, and that there could be no hope for him in the future.
I told him that if a good man could not fall we would have to pray not to be led into temptation, and wound up with:
“My dear brother, God knows what has happened; you know and I know. We three understand. The rest of the world might not. Let us keep it among ourselves, and decide that anything of the kind shall not happen again.”
I think, perhaps, that little incident did us both good, though the preacher was more than ever abashed when he learned that I was not a brother clerico, but a traveling—I never explained to him what, for fear the lesson I had read him might be thrown away.