“But listen. I went into a restaurant and, walking up to the waiter, said, ‘See here, my man, what do you charge for chickens?’ ‘Two dollars apiece,’ he replied. ‘What do you charge for eggs and bread and butter?’ I asked. ‘Four eggs for a dime and the rest thrown in,’ was his answer. ‘Give me the four eggs,’ said I; and would you believe it, the first egg I opened I found a chicken. There I was, one dollar and ninety cents ahead on the first clatter. “Then I went around to a hotel to put up for the day, and I hadn’t more than registered when the strangest thing happened you ever heard of. All the victuals in the kitchen got into an argument. There was a piece of chicken on the shelf and it saw the Worcestershire sauce at the other end. Turning to the salt it said, ‘Will you please pass me that bottle of liniment, I’ve got the rheumatism;’ and that started the biggest kind of a fight. It was a regular rough and tumble affair, in which everybody took a hand except the syrup—that was too stuck up. The coffee was weak, and made a poor showing, but the sugar was rather sweet on it and turned in to help it out. The vinegar looked on with a sour, sarcastic air without interfering, and the pepper was so bitter at the whole crowd it just urged them all to fight the harder. The butter thought it was pretty strong and pitched in for a little fun, but they soon melted it. The cook stove, which was nursing a fire, watched the fight from its door, and was beginning to get pretty warm. The longer it looked at them the hotter it grew, until it couldn’t stand it any more and began to yell for the police. Oh, it was terrible. The cabbage came out with a swelled head, the potatoes were all mashed to pieces, the chicken got an awful roast, and there is no telling where the thing would have ended if a big Irish policeman had not just then appeared on the scene. I slipped out while he was attending to the fighters, and, going to the postoffice, found, thank heaven, that my remittances had arrived and for that reason I was able to do my whole duty tonight in patronizing this estimable institution. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I appear before you in the capacity of auctioneer for this magnificent, double-decked, thoroughbred, high-stepping, copper-bottomed, fast-sailing, number one church cake, warranted not to pinch in the armholes, pull apart in the seams, or show the stains of grease, gravy, petroleum or lard oil. One bite of this cake is a revelation, and two insures a dream.” After going on this way I asked for bids, but no one would say a word or start the cake. They seemed to be backward about speaking. At last I said: “You all know, in selling goods at auction, that it is customary to take winks for a bid, but perhaps that won’t do in this case. No, a wink won’t do, but I’ll tell you what will, and that is, a smile. If you don’t care to wink, or talk, just look at me and smile and I’ll catch the meaning all the same.”