Although he was now eighty years old, Barnum still retained the use of all his faculties, and one especially, publicity. One day he tripped over a rope in Madison Square Garden. He was slightly scratched. As he was helped to his feet by some workmen, he yelled, “Where’s the press agent? Tell him I’ve been injured in an accident!” He remained at his home all the next day, and the newspapers published accounts of the “painful accident” in which “the veteran showman” was “seriously injured.” Wherever he was, in railroad cars, on ferry boats, on the streets, Barnum spoke to strangers, and he invariably ended the conversation by telling them that they had been talking to P. T. Barnum. His personal appearance was pleasantly obtrusive, the face of a person who makes himself genial to others without effort, and who can never understand that other people may not want to be pleasant. But most people must have enjoyed his geniality, for there was a readiness about the eyes to smile, and an expression of broad cordiality on the large face. The fat, bulbous nose, which in his last years was prominent and red, causing the men about the circus winter quarters to say that “the old man had quite a snitch on him,” the firm, set mouth and lips, the large head, and the broad, round chin make their impression almost immediately that here was a man who would introduce himself, and that one might not be altogether ungrateful for the introduction. What in others might have signified determination, in Barnum meant “nerve,” “cheek,” and a complete lack of embarrassment in any kind of company. He was a man who always assumed that he was welcome, and in nine cases out of every ten he was right. But there was sometimes the tenth case. Barnum went to the steamer to greet his wife, who was returning from Europe. The Duke of Argyll, who somebody said “looked like a lucifer match just ignited,” because of his flaming red hair and beard, was on the same steamer. Barnum clapped the Duke on the back and said: “Well, how are you, Duke? Welcome, welcome, Duke, to our glorious country!” The Duke looked straight ahead, as if a fly, not worth brushing aside, had been so impertinent as to interrupt him.