§ 123 And No Steam Calliope, Either
There is a theatrical manager in New York who began his professional career as press-agent for a circus. A year or two ago he had occasion to believe that a bill-posting crew sent out by him to paper the territory for a big production in which he was interested had failed to live up to its contract. He decided to make a quiet trip over the itinerary and check up on the suspected shirkers. In a city just across the Canadian line in Quebec he hired a livery-stable rig with a driver for the purpose of riding through the adjacent country.
The driver of the rig he immediately recognized as a former boss-canvasman answering to the name of Saginaw Red. In the old days this Saginaw had been employed by one of the circuses for which the New Yorker also had worked. The recognition was mutual. Naturally the two of them renewed their ancient acquaintance and a flow of reminiscence started. As their buggy reached the edge of the town the driver halted it while a funeral procession bound for the cemetery passed through an intersecting street.
It wasn’t much of a funeral procession. Behind the rusty, closed carriage containing the pall-bearers followed a dingy, glass-walled hearse and behind that, in turn, came four more closed carriages presumably containing mourners and friends of the deceased, and that was all.
Pointing to the cavalcade and employing the vernacular of their former calling, the manager addressed his companion:
“Well, Saginaw,” he said, “what do you think of the grand free street parade?”
“It’s a frost,” said Saginaw; “only one open den.”