Harris, father of Averill Harris, who is playing in "When You Smile" at the Walnut, Philadelphia, as I write, took one curtain by himself. A dagger in one hand and a revolver in the other, he kissed each to the audience, and escaped. The Mobile and Ohio train, which was to carry the company to Mobile, where we would catch the L. & N. for New Orleans, had been held two hours for us.
I was walking on the station platform while the conductor was getting his orders from the dispatcher, when two citizens lurched up and demanded thickly of me, "Say, young feller, are you part of this here show that played town this evenin'?" I coyly admitted the soft impeachment and prepared to dodge around a freight car.
"Well, we jes' wan' t' tell you tha's bes' damned show ever did see," they hiccuped. That, if not praise from Sir Hubert, was as gratifying at the moment.
My partner, Jacob Gosche, had remained in Mobile, and I had planned to wait up until he should join us there. From the first time I saw a railroad train I had yearned some day to ride on a locomotive. I had persuaded this Mobile and Ohio engineer to let me ride on the steps of the cab, already was ensconced there
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