I would then go on. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I was not afraid of exciting your sympathies I would sing you a sentimental song I have in my repertoire. It is so mesmeric in its nature and electrical in its action that I most generally like to leave it out, or until the last thing, for fear I might be overpowered like the rest of you. I sang it in Boonsville last week and nothing was good enough for me; and if they hadn’t needed them themselves I think they would have even taken off the old shoes from their feet to throw into the wagon. Silver? Silver wasn’t in it. They just filled this carriage with golden eggs, and they tossed me at least a hundred bouquets, each one tied to a brick. The title of this morceau is: ‘Biddy’s Got a Corn on Her Nose.’ As they always liked to laugh I kept the comic stories going, even if they were old and common property among the fakir fraternity. Perhaps I would go on in this fashion: “I want to tell you of a little experience with my wife, a month before we were married. I had been calling on her for several years and she was the chilliest, most icy proposition you ever heard of. She never would let me kiss her. When I finally proposed she said: ‘I’ll marry you on one condition.’ “‘What’s that?’ said I. “She replied that if I would run her a foot race and catch her she would be mine. The only condition she made was that I was to give her one hundred yards the start. “Of course, I accepted. We started. She ran up one street and down the next, through alleys, buildings, stairways and everything that came along. Whew! But that girl was a runner. When I reached one corner I would just get a glimpse of her making the turn in the block ahead. “Just as I was about to give up in despair I saw her run into a big church. “Like a whirlwind I tore after her and found a big revival meeting in progress. When I reached the center of the middle aisle the preacher, who was in the midst of the sermon, looked up and shouted to me: “‘What’s the matter, brother? Are you looking for salvation?’ “‘No,’ I yelled back, ‘I’m looking for Sal Skinner.’ “I will now sing you another beautiful lyric, most sentimental and touching, entitled, ‘’Tis Only a Chunk of Kindling from My Sweetheart’s Wooden Leg.’” I varied the purse scheme for disposing of jewelry with a fake that was quite successful, seldom made trouble, and which offered a fair amount of money. I had got hold of a little toy watch that I thought was really a bargain. It looked for the world like a real one, and at wholesale it cost me just seven cents. To each one I attached a chain that cost eight cents and then placed them in fancy, red lined paper boxes, all ready for offering to the public.