I dressed in the state-room of the parlor-car. At forty minutes past eight the train arrived at Portsea. I immediately jumped into a cab and drove to the City Hall, where the lecture was to take place. The building was lighted, but, as I ascended the stairs, there was not a person to be seen or a sound to be heard. "The place is deserted," I thought; "and if anybody came to hear me, they have all gone." I opened the door of the private room behind the platform and there found the manager, who expressed his delight to see me. I excused myself, and was going to enter into a detailed explanation when he interrupted: [Illustration: I TIP-TOED OUT.] "Oh, that's all right." "What do you mean?" said I. "Have you got an audience there, on the other side of that door?" "Why, we have got fifteen hundred people." "There?" said I, pointing to the door. "Yes, on the other side of that door." "But I can't hear a sound." "I guess you can't. But that's all right; they are there." "I suppose," I said, "I had better apologize to them for keeping them waiting three-quarters of an hour." "Well, just as you please," said the manager. "I wouldn't." "Wouldn't you?" "No; I guess they would have waited another half-hour without showing any sign of impatience." I opened the door trembling. My desk was far, far away. My manager was right; the audience was there. I stepped on the platform, shut the door after me, making as little noise as I could, and, walking on tiptoe so as to wake up as few people as possible, proceeded toward the table. Not one person applauded. A few people looked up unconcernedly, as if to say, "I guess that's the show." The rest seemed asleep, although their eyes were open. Arrived at the desk, I faced the audience, and ventured a little joke, which fell dead flat. I began to realize the treat that was in store for me that night. I tried another little joke, and--missed fire. "Never mind, old fellow," I said to myself; "it's two hundred and fifty dollars; go ahead." And I went on. I saw a few people smile, but not one laughed, although I noticed that a good many were holding their handkerchiefs over their mouths, probably to stifle any attempt at such a frivolous thing as laughter. The eyes of the audience, which I always watch, showed signs of interest, and nobody left the hall until the conclusion of the lecture. When I had finished, I made a small bow, when certainly fifty people applauded. I imagined they were glad it was all over. "Well," I said to the manager, when I had returned to the little back room, "I suppose we must call this a failure." "A failure!" said he; "it's nothing of the sort. Why, I have never seen them so enthusiastic in my life!"