About forty years ago I was a pioneer in the great Northwest (or Lake and Central States), and was pretty largely interested in the different branches of business that paid a large profit on the amount of capital invested. I was running keno in St. Paul; playing poker with the Indians, and running the risk of losing my scalp, in Minnesota; building frame shanties out of green lumber for lodgers, at a dollar a head, at Winona; and running a restaurant, saloon, billiard and keno room at Dubuque, Iowa. I was kept pretty busy looking after and attending to my different branches of business, and I divided my time between them.

At one time while I was in Dubuque looking after my restaurant, saloon, billiard and keno rooms, I met a robust, rosy-cheeked young man, who had come out West seeking his fortune in the show business. He came into my place and introduced himself, as he was a total stranger in those parts. I took quite a liking to the good-looking young man, and I told him to make my place his home while he remained in our town. He thanked me for my kindness (for in those days I was kind), and said he would be pleased if I would assist him in advertising his show. They did not have such large, handsome show-bills to draw the crowds (to the bill-boards, I mean) in those days, as they have now; but this young showman knew a thing or two, so he adopted the plan that is largely practiced by our minstrel troupes at this late day. He got some of us ordinary-looking chaps to show him the town I don’t mean like it is done in these days. He wanted us to walk around all the nice streets, so he could see the people, and so the girls could see him. We did it; and the result was, all the girls in that place were at the show the first night. I got all the boys to go over and give the young fellow a lift; and when he left the town, he was much better fixed financially than when he landed. All the girls (and some of the boys) were sorry to see him leave. He thanked me for the favors (more especially for the one of showing him the town), and he has not forgotten them to this day, for we often speak of the old times out West; but he insists that it is not near forty years ago. But I know why he don’t want me to give dates. He need not fear, for I will not tell who the good looking, rosy-cheeked boy was that I met in Dubuque about forty years ago; and no one would ever guess, for at that time he was not running a Grand Opera House and, “by Joe” (Bijou), I don’t believe he ever expected to.