Besides paying a heavy license for the privilege of selling liquor in my Tucson dance hall, I was compelled every morning, in addition, to pay over $5 as a license for the dance-hall and $1.50 collector's fees, which, if not paid out every morning as regularly as clockwork, would have threatened my business. I did not complain of this tax; it was a fair one considering the volume of trade I did. But my patronage grew and grew until there came a day when "Cady's Place," as it was known, was making more money for its owner than any similar establishment in Arizona. The saloon-keepers in Tucson became inordinately jealous and determined to put an end to my "luck," as they called it. Accordingly, nine months after I had opened my place these gentlemen used their influence quietly with the Legislature and "jobbed" me. The license was raised for dance halls at one bound to $25 per night. This was a heavier tax than even my business would stand, so I set about at once looking for somebody on whom to unload the property. I claim originality, if not a particular observance of ethics, in doing this. One day a man came along and, when he saw the crowd in the hall, suggested that I sell him a share in the enterprise. "No," I replied, "I'll not sell you a share; but, to tell you the truth, I'm getting tired of this business, and want to get out of it for good. I'll sell you the whole shooting-match, if you want to buy. Suppose you stay tonight with my barkeep and see what kind of business I do." He agreed and I put two hundred dollars in my pocket and started around town. I spent that two hundred dollars to such good purpose that that night the hall was crowded to the doors. The prospective purchaser looked on with blinking eyes at the thought of the profits that must accrue to the owner. Would he buy the place? Would he? Well, say--he was so anxious to buy it that he wanted to pass over the cash when he saw me counting up my takings in the small hours of the morning. The takings were, I remember, $417. But I told him not to be in a hurry, to go home and sleep over the proposition and come back the next day. After he had gone the collector came around, took his $26.50 and departed. On his heels came my man. "Do you still want to buy?" I asked him. "You bet your sweet life I want to buy," he replied. "You're sure you've investigated the proposition fully?" I asked him. The customer thought of that four hundred and seventeen dollars taken in over the bar the night before and said he had. "Hand over the money, then," I said, promptly. "The place is yours." The next morning he came to me with a lugubrious countenance. "Well," I greeted him, "how much did you make last night?" "Took in ninety-six dollars," he answered, sadly. "Cady, why didn't you tell me about that $25 tax?"