"Well, Alfred, what do you think of Sam Jones, and Billy Sunday?"

"Sam Jones is dead and nearly forgotten. As to Billy Sunday, I have made it a rule not to talk about a business compet.i.tor. Talk is advertising.

Billy Sunday is running a show. It's bigger than mine, but it's not as good because it's not an honest show. It's run under the guise of religion. Religion, as I understand it, is your life work from day to day and not the inspiration or the evolution of a week, a month or a year. Billy Sunday has four or five advance agents, or promoters. I employ only two. Billy Sunday has promoters the slickest in the business: men who have had the experience of years in all sorts of schemes. His show is a sad reflection upon the ministers and church members of any city that falls for his methods. The preachers simply admit that they are not equal to the labor they are engaged in. They must have a buffoon, a mountebank, whose methods are repugnant to those who believe in the religion that is taught by the Bible. Billy Sunday creates excitement that carries some folks off their feet for the time being: no lasting results obtain. Those that will remember Billy Sunday longest are those people who give up their money to him. Billy Sunday's show has the Gift Show scheme distanced before the start."

Uncle Tom enjoyed his visit to Columbus greatly. On his last Sunday he occupied the pulpit of the Evangelical Church on East Main Street. He advised Alfred the day previous that he would preach a special sermon--text, I Cor., Chapter 1, Verse 19: "I had rather speak five words with my understanding that by my voice I might teach others also, than ten thousand words in an unknown tongue."

After elaborating upon the text, he reached the pith of his sermon: "A man out of place is only half a man. His nature is perverted. He becomes restless and discontented and his life is made a failure, while the same person might have made a success of all his undertakings if he had been properly placed. As a rule, that which one likes best to do is his forte. No man can be wholly successful in this life until he finds his place. Some men glide into their proper sphere as naturally as the birds of the air fly, or fish in the deep swim. Others never ask the question of themselves: 'What is my place? What shall I do that I may be content to labor and succeed in the world?' Every man should ask himself: 'What is my place? How shall I decide it? How shall I fill it that my life shall not be a failure?' It may be difficult to answer this question.

The answer may not always be from the heart, that is, influenced by sincerity. Ignorance or lack of ambition may prompt an answer and failure follow. Though difficult to answer, the question must be answered by all. 'What is my right place in the labor of this world? How shall I find it? How shall I succeed in it?' But few men can be really successful and discontented--contentment is success.

"Education and civilization will have found their highest value in this world when every man has chosen his proper work; work for which he is fitted by nature and inclination. How many boys have had their aspirations checked, their longings silenced, by loving but misguided parents and friends? How many boys, who might have attained eminence in a calling they were fitted for, have been forced to fill a place that was repugnant to their natures? There is not a day we do not see natural ability checked by occupations that are not congenial to those engaged in them. We can hardly conceive of a man or boy forced to do work they loathe. Parents may feel they are fulfilling a highest duty when they choose a profession or a calling they believe the best for their children, but against which the whole nature of the boy revolts, and for which they have no natural ability. If instinct and heart ask for a blacksmithing trade, be a blacksmith; if for carpentry, be a carpenter; if for the medical profession, be a doctor; if for music, be a musician.

There is nothing like filling your place in the labor of this world successfully. If you cannot fill a higher position acceptably and successfully, be content to choose a lower one. There's nothing more creditable in this world than filling a small place in a large way. It is better to be a first rate brick mason than a second rate lawyer.

Choose your calling in this world. Prosecute it with all the vigor in your being. With a firm reliance in G.o.d and confidence in yourself failure is impossible."

Neither Uncle Tom nor Alfred, in their conversation referred to the sermon at dinner. Several complimented Uncle Tom on his sermon. As Alfred looked across the table at the Uncle, they both smiled. Alfred thought of another sermon he had sat under years previously, and it's his opinion the Uncle had the same thought.

Uncle Tom sleeps in a little church yard in Virginia near the people he loved so well, and that his views broadened in his last years only made him more beloved by those for whom he always faithfully labored, believing in the right as he saw it. He was an honest man, a consistent Christian.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Not hurrying to, not turning from the goal.

Not mourning for the things that disappear In the dim past, nor holding back in fear From what the future veils; but with a whole And happy heart, that pays the toll To you and age, and travels on with cheer.

Uncle Madison, stage driver, soldier, planter, historian, a gentleman of the old school; versed in the cla.s.sics and current events, most positive in his deductions. He fought every day and year of the Civil War for the cause of the South. He had labored every day since Appomattox to better the conditions he had been active in unsettling. The soul of honor, as courtly as a king, as keen as a flint, as blunt as a sledge, as tender as a child.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Uncle Madison]

It was telegraphed all over the country that A. P. Clayton, Mayor of St.

Joe, Mo., and Alfred, were behind the bars in Pittsburgh, Pa. Bill Brown telegraphed W. E. Joseph, Masonic Temple, Columbus: "Clayton and Field in jail here, will you help to get them out?" The answer was: "If Clayton and Alfred are in jail, it's where they belong. W. E. Joseph."

Uncle Madison read of it in the newspapers. He reared and charged. "Bill Brown nor no other man could put him in jail without suffering for it."

Alfred's explanation did not satisfy Uncle Madison. "It's only Bill's way of having fun with his friends. No one that goes to Pittsburgh but Bill plays some sort of a joke on him. We are glad to get off so easy.

We expected him to steal our clothes or have us indicted for bootlegging. Why, there are a number of people in the west--good people--who will not go east via Pittsburgh, fearing Bill's practical jokes."

Pet Clayton, Imperial Potentate of the Shrine, was _compelled_ to visit Pittsburgh in connection with his official duties. Clayton carried Alfred with him as protection. Alfred, in his haste, forgot his dress suit. Arriving in Pittsburgh only a few moments before the ceremonial session, Bill insisted Alfred wear one of his (Bill's) dress suits; that it was the rule of the Temple that all must wear dress suits to gain admission. Bill is wider than Alfred, "thicker through," but not quite as tall. There was too much s.p.a.ce everywhere excepting in the length of legs and arms of Bill's dress suit, as it encompa.s.sed Alfred. No coaxing or lengthening of the suspenders or pulling at the sleeves could make Alfred look other than ridiculous. After walking from the Ft. Pitt Hotel to the Temple, the suit began to "set" to its new conditions. The legs, seat and sleeves, were drawing up at every breath.

Bill, in introducing the visitors, kindly made apologies for the condition of Clayton, and the appearance of Alfred, explaining that Clayton had just come from Louisville, where he was booked for one night only, but there was more to inspect than he had ever tackled before. He also a.s.sured the n.o.bility that Alfred owned a dress suit but they would not permit him to take it out of Columbus; that the suit Alfred wore was one he had kindly loaned him and he hoped that if anything happened Alfred those a.s.sembled would respect the clothes. When Alfred arose the next morning to prepare for the automobile ride the local people had tendered the visitors, his clothes were missing from the room. Bill Brown and the committee were waiting. "Slip on your overcoat; that will hide Bill's old suit. You won't be out of the automobile until you return. This hotel will make that suit good. How much did it cost you?"

"Sixty dollars; well, we'll make them buy you a hundred dollar suit."

Every out of town guest, (Shriners) had lost something from their rooms.

Harrison Dingman was tugging at an odd pair of shoes, a number eight and a ten, to get ready for the automobile tour. Bill Brown was everywhere consoling the losers, making notes of the losses pretending he wanted to bring suit against the hotel.

Alfred and Clayton were hustled into an automobile under Brown's tender care. As the auto sped on, Clayton remonstrated as to the high speed at which the machine was traveling. Brown was describing the Carnegie Technical School. Clayton, seemingly not interested, bluntly informed Bill he would not ride further at the speed we're going. "I'm too d.a.m.n good a man to get killed by one of these machines," declared Clayton.

Brown pretended his feelings were injured. Halting the auto as he climbed out backwards, he remarked: "I don't want to annoy you, gentlemen. The educational inst.i.tution we are now pa.s.sing is one of the most noted in the world. I supposed you'd be interested in it. It is one of which Pittsburghers are justly proud. We take a young man from the home, pa.s.s him through this school and turn him out versed in any profession or trade."

Clayton said something about an inst.i.tution in St. Joe that took a hog from the pen every minute, pa.s.sed him through and turned him out every minute, ready for the table. Clayton referred to St. Joe's slaughter houses.

After Brown left the auto there was no slacking of its speed. Both Alfred and Clayton remonstrated with the chauffer. He claimed they were not traveling nearly so rapidly as the machines containing the other guests; that he did not know their destination and must keep in sight of them. As Clayton was insisting that the auto be halted, a policeman threw up his hands, commanding the chauffer to halt, advising all they were arrested for exceeding the speed limit. Clayton quickly informed the officers that we were guests, not the owners of the machine; that we had protested since we entered the park at the high speed; that we were not to blame and should not be arrested. "I'm not here in Pittsburgh to break laws that I instruct my officers to enforce. I am the Mayor of St.

Joe and I won't stand for this arrest."

"St. Joe, St. Joe," mused the Irish policeman, "well, uv course, I have no authority to turn yez loose. There may be a St. Joe but I haven't heered uf it. There's so meny new korporations springing up around yere, I exshpect Coryopolis will be havin' a Mayor next an' he'll come in the city an' want to have immunity fur any crime he may commit. No, you nabobs wid dese automobiles must be held in check. Ye kilt two shill-dren and a hog out uv wan family last week."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "It's Done Every Day in St. Joe"]

Clayton led the officer behind the machine. Alfred overheard him offer the cop two dollars and to set them up to turn the pair loose. "It's done every day in St. Joe," Clayton confided. The officer shook his head and remarked:

"I'll have tu take yez down. Get in!" and he pointed with his club to the open door of the machine. "Climb in! I'll let yez talk to the sargent." The Mayor of St. Joe and the meek minstrel re-embarked. The officer sat up beside the chauffer, Clayton slinging it into him every foot of the way to the station.

There was a crowd outside the door. "Phwat are they pinched fur?"

inquired a ward politician who had a pull, and consequently got a reply from the cops. "Exceedin' the spheed law in the park," replied the officer. "They're from out of town, are they?" "Yis," answered the cop.

"The big one claims he's the Mayor of St. Joseph's Academy, er some other place. The other one has thryed to hide hisself in his overcoat."

They were in front of the Sergeant's desk. Alfred whispered to Clayton: "Give a fict.i.tious name." Clayton was arguing the case with the Sergeant. "My name's Clayton. This is Mr. Field, Al. G. Field, of minstrel fame. He lives in Columbus, Ohio, right near you. He is the Potentate of Aladdin Temple, Columbus."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "It Will Cost Us Fifty Dollars and Costs"]

"Hold on, Pet, hold on," pleaded Alfred, "I--I--"

"Never mind, Alfred, never mind. Now, I'm the Mayor of a city. I know just how to handle these matters."

"Well, don't give them my name and pedigree. Handle it without that,"

requested Alfred.

"Put them both together in cell twenty-three and send for the Bertillon officers. I think you'll find their mugs in the Hall of Fame." Clayton advised Alfred the Hall of Fame had reference to the Rogue's Gallery.

Clayton clamored for an opportunity to telephone the Chief of Police, the Director of Public Safety, or some other high mogul. "If I was in St. Joe, I'd be out of here in two minutes," he excitedly declared.

"Of course you would," a.s.sented Alfred, "but you're not in St. Joe.

You're in jail in Pittsburgh, a shake-down town, and it will cost us fifty and costs, you see if it don't."

"Not on your life it won't. Let me get this fellow on the phone. What's his name? I met him last night. I'll tell him something," said Clayton.

"Do you know him?" meekly inquired Alfred.

"Know him? h.e.l.l? Why, I'm well acquainted with him. I had fifty drinks with him last night."

"Well, telephone him quick," urged Alfred.

"h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo! This is Clayton, Clayton, C-l-a-y-t-o-n, Clayton. I met you last night. (Ha-ha-ha). How do you feel? (Oh, all right). Where am I at? No, no! Pet Clayton, Mayor of St. Joe, Imperial Potentate of the--h.e.l.lo--gurgle--gurgle," and Pet hung up the phone. "Well, don't that beat the bugs! Now this fellow knows me but he says he must see me.

He only met me last night, he isn't familiar with my voice. I told him who I was but he said I might be all right, but he would come out and investigate."

"It seems to me Bill Brown would come back looking for us. You're the guest of honor."

This reminder riled Clayton up. "I'll attend to Mr. Brown's case. I put him where he is. I'll show him something next session of the Imperial Council."