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SHOWMAN
teen years before American women got the vote, but Mrs. Pankhurst's antics in England were getting a big play in the American press and I smelled something to promote. So I filled the Garden with a sort of a female World's Fair. Not a man in the place except myself, and I stayed out of sight— women ticket-takers, women ushers, women dancers, women singers, policewomen, women all the way. The manufacturers had paid me handsomely to fill the main floor with exhibits of women's articles— clothing, sewing-machines and such. You could make a fortune out of the cosmetics manufactured today with the same set-up, but this was back before lipstick and powder had moved uptown. The Garden basement, cleaned up, was devoted to exhibits of the women of all nations, genuine natives, engaged in characteristic activities— Irish women making linen, Turkish women making cigarettes, all of which was tied in with national chambers of commerce.
But I did have to stay out of the picture, and half the fun I got out of these odd jugglings lay in the sport of taking a hand myself. I never enjoyed myself more than during the cakewalking tour— except possibly when I was running the battleship Oregon in a reproduction of the battle of Santiago.
That was another case of picking up something good that was starving for attention. Shortly after the Spanish War an ingenious German arrived in New York bringing with him two fleets of miniature battleships to re-enact the sinking of the battleship Maine
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