Various mercantile positions were mine until the Fall of 1894, when the late Harry Mann opened the old Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia for the production of the old farces such as “Box and Cox” and others of a like nature. I had heard that there were to be specialties between the acts, wrote for an engagement and shortly afterwards received a reply from Mr. Mann asking me to call. (I have that letter yet.) I told him that I had a black-face monologue that was absolutely original; he told me that he could get Willis P. Sweatnam, but decided to give me the preference, I was quick to reply that I wasn’t as good as Sweatnam. (I was frightfully modest those days.) However, I was engaged, and was to receive $10 for my week’s services; I was certain he could not get Sweatnam for less than $12.50 or possibly $15. Monday, September 24, we opened; I wore a pale-blue suit and a pleasant expression; on Tuesday I still had the suit, but had lost the expression, caused by the sudden closing of the house. I have always maintained that if I had been billed stronger, the house might have remained open longer; possibly another night; the $1.67 due me for my one performance, I never received, but as compensation, one of the papers said that my monologue, besides being good in itself, was excellently rendered. It’s not true that the reporter who wrote this, attended a prizefight that evening. I banked a whole lot on that blue suit; it was part of my plan to be different from any other monologist, and I still think I was. Instead of making my entrance in the conventional manner, I hit upon the idea of having one of the scenes part in the centre, and then walk on saying, “I just blew in,” carelessly pointing to my blue suit at the same time. The more I thought of this, the greater the sensation I was sure I would create; I pictured the reserves being called upon to quell the riot; I saw myself taking encore after encore, and conjured the immense audience rising in their seats as one, begging for just one more glimpse of that blue suit; I was so sure of my success to be, that in a burst of confidence, I told a friend about my idea, and was horrified to learn that George Thatcher had done the self-same thing some time before. Here was a dilemma, what was I to do? I had known Thatcher from boyhood, and the idea of utilizing any of his ideas was not to be thought of; fortunately, about this time, he (Thatcher) played an engagement at the National Theatre (Philadelphia), and I decided to see him and explain the situation thoroughly. I found him one evening standing on the steps of the theatre; I told the whole story, reserving nothing, and explained that I was willing to relinquish my idea if he thought it would conflict with him in any way, but with rare generosity he agreed not to prosecute me for plagiarism or piracy.