Nor was this the worst, for the fellow Hobbs had copied my own dress
and make-up and persisted in speaking in an exaggerated manner alleged
to resemble mine. This, of course, was the most shocking bad taste,
and while it was quite to have been expected of Hobbs, I was indeed
rather surprised that the entire assembly did not leave the auditorium
in disgust the moment they perceived his base intention. But it was
Cousin Egbert whom they had chosen to rag most unmercifully, and they
were not long in displaying their clumsy attempts at humour.
As the curtain went up they were searching for him, affecting to be
unconscious of the presence of their audience, and declaring that the
play couldn't go on without him. "Have you tried all the saloons?"
asked one, to which another responded, "Yes, and he's been in all of
them, but now he has fled. The sheriff has put bloodhounds on his
trail and promises to have him here, dead or alive."
"Then while we are waiting," declared the character supposed to
represent myself, "I will tell you a wheeze," whereupon both the
female characters fell to their knees shrieking, "Not that! My God,
not that!" while Oswald sneered viciously and muttered, "Serves me
right for leaving Boston."
To show the infamy of the thing, I must here explain that at several
social gatherings, in an effort which I still believe was
praiseworthy, I had told an excellent wheeze which runs: "Have you
heard the story of the three holes in the ground?" I mean to say, I
would ask this in an interested manner, as if I were about to relate
the anecdote, and upon being answered "No!" I would exclaim with mock
seriousness, "Well! Well! Well!" This had gone rippingly almost quite
every time I had favoured a company with it, hardly any one of my
hearers failing to get the joke at a second telling.
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