"We'll paralyze 'em," said Handy to his fellow-players, as they were grouped together on the stage preparing red lights, which he proposed to use as a species of illumination. "Wait until I let the band loose in the streets, and if it don't fetch 'em, well, I'll quit the business." "Handy, methinks we made a bloomin' blunder," remarked the Little 'Un. "We ought to have billed the town for a week." "A week?" queried the property man in some surprise. "Why so, may I ask, my noble critic?" "Well, to be frank with you, because if we did, methinks after once or twice having made acquaintance with our band, 'tis dollars to doughnuts they would have substantially staked us to leave town." Handy looked at the speaker with a glance of mingled cynicism and humor, and turning to the treasurer inquired, "How is the advance sale?" "Ninety-seven and a half dollars," replied the secretary of the treasury. "Good enough! We're away ahead of expenses now." At eight o'clock there was some excitement noticeable down near the water convenient to one of the avenues. A few minutes later and the band, led by Handy, came forth. As the musicians marched the crowd increased. Up the principal street the strollers paraded, preceded and accompanied by a crowd of urchins and curiosity seekers. People came to the doors to look and hear, and many windows had their occupants. The streets were crowded, and by the time the band reached the tent it was fairly well filled. It might be as well to say that the majority of those who went to witness "Humpty Dumpty" did so for the pure fun of the thing, and determined to have the lark out. There was no orchestra, for the orchestra was the band, and the band had to do the acting. The curtain went up somewhere about the hour announced. Had poor dead and gone G. L. Fox, the original _Humpty_, and the greatest pantomimist of the American stage, been living and among the audience, he could not have failed to enjoy the performance. It is impossible to describe it in detail.