"Keep at it, my young friend," he said to me. "That's the only way to win. The railroad magnates are the first persons to recognize real genius. Why, before I was seventy years old, I was travelling on a pass!"
I steered away, for I reckoned if I'd have to wait till I was three-score-and-ten before passes came my way I wouldn't need 'em then.
I walked to a neighboring village and bribed the editor of the local paper to print a five-line poem which I had written. The poem was entitled "To Hell," and was pretty hot stuff for a youngster. Next day I trotted off to the paper office to preserve the original manuscript. As I was leaving some one shouted:
"That's the villiain, Jake, that makes love to your wife by writin' poetry to her."
"Aha!" roared Jake, "that 'ar shunk! the fellow what wrote the poem about Nell! Whoop!"
I caught a flash of a big farmer getting his gun in position. I waited for no more, but did a flying scoot.
Great Scot! There's the stage bell. I'll have to shut down, or the manager will be here with a club. Ting-ting!