“I did not hear it. I was out in the ticket-office. I guess it was pretty good, for I never heard so much laughing as there was all through his speech. But it makes no difference whether it was good or not,” continued the ticket-seller, “the people will go to see Barnum.” “Barnum must be a curious chap,” I remarked. “Well, I guess he is up to all the dodges.” “Do you know him?” I asked. “Not personally,” he replied; “but I always get into the Museum for nothing. I know the doorkeeper, and he slips me in free.” “Barnum would not like that, probably, if he knew it,” I remarked. “But it happens he don’t know it,” replied the ticket-seller, in great glee. “Barnum was on the cars the other day, on his way to Bridgeport,” said I, “and I heard one of the passengers blowing him up terribly as a humbug. He was addressing Barnum at the time, but did not know him. Barnum joined in lustily, and indorsed everything the man said. When the passenger learned whom he had been addressing, I should think he must have felt rather flat.” “I should think so, too,” said the ticket-seller. This was too much, and we all indulged in a burst of laughter; still the ticket-seller suspected nothing. After I had left the shop, the barber told him who I was. I called into the ticket-office on business several times during the day, but the poor ticket-seller kept his face turned from me, and appeared so chap-fallen that I did not pretend to recognize him as the hero of the joke in the barber’s shop. This incident reminds me of numerous similar ones which have occurred at various times. On one occasion--it was in 1847--I was on board the steamboat from New York to Bridgeport. As we approached the harbor of the latter city, a stranger desired me to point out “Barnum’s house” from the upper deck. I did so, whereupon a bystander remarked, “I know all about that house, for I was engaged in painting there for several months while Barnum was in Europe.” He then proceeded to say that it was the meanest and most ill-contrived house he ever saw. “It will cost old Barnum a mint of money, and not be worth two cents after it is finished,” he added. “I suppose old Barnum don’t pay very punctually,” I remarked. “Oh, yes, he pays punctually every Saturday night--there’s no trouble about that; he has made half a million by exhibiting a little boy whom he took from Bridgeport, and whom we never considered any great shakes till Barnum took him and trained him.” Soon afterwards one of the passengers told him who I was, whereupon he secreted himself, and was not seen again while I remained on the boat.