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SHOWMAN
rived in Chicago and came tearing over to Tattersall's to see me about some great emergency.
"Where's Mr. Brady?" he shouted at the first functionary he saw.
"Brady?" said the functionary. "You can't see him right now. He's coming round the Horn in the Oregon,"
And this was the period when I'd given up managing prize-fighters because it was too undignified! In that direction I was certainly getting nowhere fast.
Still, I'm accustomed to looking back on myself and getting a good laugh. Here is a letter from David Warfield, received a couple of years ago, which records some more of my unconscious comedy:
"Dear Will:
I opened the play, 'The Inspector,' in Newark, N. J., on the night before Christmas, 1890, in which I had a couple of lines to speak, for which I received $25 a week. It was truly a generous gesture on your part, because it was much more than I was worth, and besides you gave me my first chance in the theater. I've never forgotten it, Willie! And now do you recall that I did a monologue in the last act, in which I told the story of a scene in a Jewish lodge— and during the week you came over to see the play and told me to cut out the Jewish story, because you said I couldn't portray a Jewish character? . . .
And now, my dear old friend, let me wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy and a fruitful New Year.
Sincerely,
David Warfield."
Get that? Every time I reflect with appropriate satisfaction that it was I who sneaked David Warfield out
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