Once, during a tour in the Western States, writes Mr. Florence, the
actor, an incident occurred in which I rather think I played the victim.
We were _en route_ from Cleveland to Cincinnati, an eight or ten-hour
journey. After seeing my wife comfortably seated, I walked forward to
the smoking car, and, taking the only unoccupied place, pulled out my
cigar case, and offered a cigar to my next neighbour. He was about sixty
years of age, gentlemanly in appearance, and of a somewhat reserved and
bashful mien. He gracefully accepted the cigar, and in a few minutes we
were engaged in conversation.
“Are you going far west?” I inquired.
“Merely so far as Columbus.” (Columbus, I may explain is the capital of
Ohio.) “And you, sir?” he added, interrogatively.
“I am journeying toward Cincinnati. I am a theatrical man, and play
there to-morrow night.” I was a young man then, and fond of avowing my
profession.
“Oh, indeed! Your face seemed familiar to me as you entered the car. I
am confident we have met before.”
“I have acted in almost every State in the Union,” said I. “Mrs.
Florence and I are pretty generally known throughout the north-west.”
“Bless me?” said the stranger in surprise, “I have seen you act many
times, sir, and the recollection of Mrs. Florence’s ‘Yankee Girl,’ with
her quaint songs, is still fresh in my memory.”
“Do you propose remaining long in Columbus?”
“Yes, for seven years,” replied my companion.
Thus we chatted for an hour or two. At length my attention was attracted
to a little, red-faced man, with small sharp eyes, who sat immediately
opposite us and amused himself by sucking the knob of a large walking
stick which he carried caressingly in his hand. He had more than once
glanced at me in a knowing manner, and now and then gave a sly wink and
shake of the head at me, as much as to say, “Ah, old fellow, I know you,
too.”
These attentions were so marked that I finally asked my companion if he
had noticed them.
“That poor man acts like a lunatic,” said I, _sotto voce_.
“A poor half-witted fellow, possibly,” replied my fellow-traveller. “In
your travels through the country, however, Mr. Florence, you must have
often met such strange characters.”
We had now reached Crestline, the dinner station, and, after thanking the
stranger for the agreeable way in which he had enabled me to pass the
journey up to this point, I asked him if he would join Mrs. Florence and
myself at dinner. This produced an extraordinary series of grimaces and
winks from the red-faced party aforesaid. The invitation to dinner was
politely declined.
The repast over, our train sped on toward Cincinnati. I told my wife
that in the smoking car I had met a most entertaining gentleman, who was
well posted in theatricals, and was on his way to Columbus. She
suggested that I should bring him into our car, and present him to her.
I returned to the smoking car and proposed that the gentleman should
accompany me to see Mrs. Florence. The proposal made the red-faced man
undergo a species of spasmodic convulsions which set the occupants of the
car into roars of laughter.
“No, I thank you,” said my friend, “I feel obliged to you for the
courtesy, but I prefer the smoking car. Have you another cigar?”
“Yes,” said I, producing another Partaga.
I again sat by his side, and once more our conversation began, and we
were quite fraternal. We talked about theatres and theatricals, and then
adverted to political economy, the state of the country, finance and
commerce in turn, our intimacy evidently affording intense amusement to
the foxy-faced party near us.
Finally the shrill sound of the whistle and the entrance of the conductor
indicated that we had arrived at Columbus, and the train soon arrived at
the station.
“Come,” said the red-faced individual, now rising from his seat and
tapping my companion on the shoulder, “This is your station, old man.”
My friend rose with some difficulty, dragging his hitherto concealed feet
from under the seat, when, for the first time, I discovered that he was
shackled, and was a prisoner in charge of the Sheriff, going for seven
years to the state prison at Columbus.