Professor Bell would have one telephone by his side on the stage, where
he was speaking, and three or four others of the big box variety we used
at that time would be suspended about the hall, all connected by means
of a hired telegraph wire with the place where I was stationed, from
five to twenty-five miles away. Bell would give the audience, first, the
commonplace parts of the show and then would come the thrillers of the
evening—my shouts and songs. I would shout such sentences as, “How do
you do?” “Good evening,” “What do you think of the telephone?” which
they could all hear, although the words issued from the mouthpieces
rather badly marred by the defective talking powers of the telephones of
that date. Then I would sing “Hold the Fort,” “Pull for the Shore,”
“Yankee Doodle,” and as a delicate allusion to the Professor’s
nationality, “Auld Lang Syne.” My sole sentimental song was “Do Not
Trust Him, Gentle Lady.” This repertoire always brought down the house.
After every song I would listen at my telephone for further directions
from the lecturer, and always felt the artist’s joy when I heard in it
the long applause that followed each of my efforts. I was always encored
to the limit of my repertoire and sometimes had to sing it through
twice.
I have always understood that Professor Bell was a fine platform
speaker, but this is entirely hearsay on my part for, although I spoke
at every one of his lectures, I have never yet had the pleasure of
hearing him deliver an address.