Struggles and Triumphs P. T. Barnum (the beginning after the end read novel .TXT) 📖

road. Indeed, as we sped past each train, which stood quietly on a side track waiting for us to pass, I could not help smiling at the glances of excited curiosity which were thrown into our car by the agent and brakemen of the train which had been so peremptorily ordered to clear the track; and always stepping at the caboose door, I raised my hat, receiving in return an almost reverent salute, which the occupants of the waiting train thought due, no doubt, to the distinguished person for whom they were ordered by special telegram to make way.

I now began to reflect that the Fort Wayne lecture committee, upon discovering that I did not arrive by the regular passenger train, would not expect me at all, and that probably they might issue small bills announcing my failure to arrive. I therefore prepared the following telegram which I despatched to them on our arrival at Napoleon, the first station at which we stopped:

Lecture Committee, Fort Wayne:⁠—Rest perfectly tranquil. I am to be delivered at Fort Wayne by contract by half-past seven o’clock⁠—special train.

At the same station I received a telegram from Mr. Andrews, the superintendent, asking me how I liked the caboose. I replied:

The springs of the caboose are softer than down; I am as happy as a clam at high water; I am being carried towards Fort Wayne in a style never surpassed by Caesar’s triumphal march into Rome. Hurrah for the Toledo and Wabash Railroad!

At the invitation of the engineer, I took a ride of twenty miles upon the locomotive. It fairly made my head swim. I could not reconcile my mind to the idea that there was no danger; and intimating to the engineer that it would be a relief to get where I could not see ahead, I was permitted to crawl back again to the caboose.

I reached Fort Wayne in ample time for the lecture; and as the committee had discreetly kept to themselves the fact of my non-arrival by the regular train, probably not a dozen persons were aware of the trouble I had taken to fulfil my engagement, till in the course of my lecture, under the head of “perseverance,” I recounted my day’s adventures, as an illustration of exercising that quality when real necessity demanded. The Fort Wayne papers of the next day published accounts of “Barnum on a Locomotive,” and “A Journey in a Caboose”; and as I always had an eye to advertising, these articles were sent marked to newspapers in towns and cities where I was to lecture, and of course were copied⁠—thus producing the desired effects, first, of informing the public that the “showman” was coming, and next, assuring the lecture committee that Barnum would be punctually on hand as advertised, unless prevented by “circumstances over which he had no control.”

The managers of railroads running west from Chicago pretty rigidly enforce a rule excluding from certain reserved cars all gentlemen travelling without ladies. As I do not smoke, I avoided the smoking cars; and as the ladies’ car was sometimes more select and always more comfortable than the other cars, I tried various expedients to smuggle myself in. If I saw a lady about to enter the car alone, I followed closely, hoping thus to elude the vigilance of the brakeman, who generally acted as doorkeeper. But the car Cerberus is pretty well up to all such dodges, and I did not always succeed. On one occasion, seeing a young couple, evidently just married, and starting on a bridal tour, about to enter the car, I followed closely, but was stopped by the doorkeeper, who called out:

“How many gentlemen are with this lady.”

I have always noticed that young newly-married people are very fond of saying “my husband” and “my wife;” they are new terms which sound pleasantly to the ears of those who utter them; so in answer to the peremptory inquiry of the doorkeeper, the bridegroom promptly responded:

“I am this lady’s husband.”

“And I guess you can see by the resemblance between the lady and myself,” said I to Cerberus, “that I am her father.”

The astounded husband and the blushing bride were too much “taken aback” to deny their newly-discovered parent, but the brakeman said, as he permitted the young couple to pass into the car:

“We can’t pass all creation with one lady.”

“I hope you will not deprive me of the company of my child during the little time we can remain together,” I said with a demure countenance. The brakeman evidently sympathized with the fond “parient” whose feelings were sufficiently lacerated at losing his daughter through her finding a husband, and I was permitted to pass. I immediately apologized to the young bride and her husband, and told them who I was, and my reasons for the assumed paternity, and they enjoyed the joke so heartily that they called me “father” during our entire journey together. Indeed, the husband privately and slyly hinted to me that the first boy should be christened “P. T.” My friend the Rev. Dr. Chapin, by the by an inveterate punster, is never tired of ringing the changes on the names in my family; he says that my wife and I are the most sympathetic couple he ever saw, since she is “Charity” and I am “Pity” (P. T.) On one occasion, at my house in New York, he called my attention to the monogram, P. T. B., on the door and said, “I did it,” “Did what,” I asked: “Why that,” replied the doctor, “P. T. B.⁠—Pull The Bell, of course,” thus literally ringing a new change on my initials.

At another time during my western lecturing trip, I was following closely in the wake of a lady who was entering the favorite car, when the brakeman exclaimed; “You can’t go in there, sir!”

“I rather guess I can go in with a lady,” said I, pointing to the one who had just entered.

“Not with that lady, old fellow;