“If I had only been content with my own perfidious eloquence I wouldn’t have got disgusted and quit. But I was ambitious and wanted to throw away no chance to boom the show. So, soon, in every town in which I could locate an appropriate headstone, I put on black clothes, a countenance of becoming sadness and marched the band to the graveyard. They played dirges all the way. Frank Morris, the orator of the circus, accompanied us and I had him make an address at the grave. I wrote out three non-committal speeches and there was no dead man whose life didn’t fit one or judiciously selected parts of the three. They were all very affecting, and made the women cry. On the way back to the lot we always got a loving ovation. The newspapers spoke approvingly of the proceedings and the residents thought it a great compliment. I was very proud of myself. “The thing went along swimmingly for several weeks and my motives were never openly assailed, although I think once or twice there lurked a suspicion in the minds of shrewd townspeople that their departed brother wasn’t all in life that we represented him. Anyway, I know it brought money to the circus, and I could never understand the boss’s secret disapproval. He never offered any sensible, legitimate objection, but I could tell by his manner that he was afraid of some kind of a boomerang finish some day. I persevered aggressively, nevertheless, and was confident he would never get a valid excuse for forbidding us to continue. I knew the experienced old man of affairs was waiting warily for a chance. “The success or failure of the concert depended in a great measure upon Morris’s oratory. When in good voice and spirits, he could fairly glue his auditors to their seats. They wouldn’t budge until they had seen all the concert attractions about which he had so insinuatingly roared. So it was through him that the boss found opportunity to base a complaint, put an end to my practices and lower my estimate of his business intelligence. One unlucky day Morris caught a bad cold. He was hoarse and depressed, and his announcement was received with little favor. The concert attendance was small and the head of the show was quick to seize his advantage--and strike at my burying-ground plot. “‘Morris got that cold in one of your graveyards,’ he addressed me, reproachfully, ‘and we’ll have to give him a rest from this double duty. Let those fellows rest in peace in their graves after this!’ “I left the show a month later, disgusted and discouraged, and found a place where my fine art received support and confidence and gratitude.” * * * * *