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SHOWMAN
pursued poor Eliza across the Ohio were the full-bred and priceless bloodhounds the advertising claimed they were.
They looked tough too. That was why I felt a trifle jumpy when the manager equipped me with a leather collar, to which was attached a highly realistic rubber sausage, led me into a dimly lighted cellar beneath the stage, and announced that he was going to sick the dogs on me. They were really gentle and good-natured, he added, and knew their parts beautifully, so I would come to no harm— then, before I could protest or ask for instructions, he was gone to turn the dogs loose. I had just got started looking for somewhere to hide when a hundred and odd pounds of Great Dane leaped on me out of the shadows, knocked me down— in those days I hardly weighed as much as an outsize dog— seized the rubber sausage in his teeth and began to bounce my head up and down on the floor with the purchase it gave him, all the while snarling and growling and carrying on like a fiend incarnate. But he didn't seem to be doing me any permanent damage. By the time the stage-manager called him off and I'd got dusted off, I had the idea. It felt like the end of the world till you got used to it, all right, but, from then on, the dog and I collaborated to thrilling effect. After going through it at least once and often twice a day, I don't know who made the more noise— the dog snarling and snorting as he was ostensibly tearing my throat out, or me hollering and screaming and panting and groaning and gur
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