“Under these circumstances we will go in, though I must confess I expect to be disappointed.  You will excuse my plain speaking.”  The thick-set gentleman thereupon thrust a hand into a pocket, and produced—­not a huge roll of bank bills, or a half pint of silver, as Marcus, who eyed him sharply through the pigeon hole, had expected, but—­a card, which he poked at Tiffles.

Tiffles recognized it at the first glance.  It was one of thirty complimentary tickets that he had caused to be distributed among the leading men of the village that morning, by advice of the landlord; and it bore the name of “C.  Skimmerhorn, Esq.”

“Welcome, sir, welcome!” said Tiffles, as he observed the dollar and a quarter disappear from his mental horizon, and felt that, but for his indomitable good nature, he would like to kick C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., down stairs.  And Tiffles, nobly concealing his disappointment, showed C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., and his domestic caravan to the best front seat.  As he turned back to the door, he heard that gentleman say to his spouse, “That fellow looks like a humbug.”

A stream of people on the stairs gladdened his eyes.  In one sweeping survey, he figured up three dollars.  But they proved to be three clergymen, with faded wives, large families, and female relatives stopping with them.  Each of the clergymen graciously informed Tiffles, on delivering up his family ticket, that a panorama was one of the few secular entertainments that he could consent to patronize.  They doubted very much whether they could have been persuaded to come, but for the recommendation of their evangelical brethren in the city.

Tiffles bowed acknowledgment of the empty honor, and ushered the three clergymen and families to the front row of seats, of which C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., and his train, occupied as much as they could cover by spreading out.  Mr. Skimmerhorn recognized, in one of the clergymen, his beloved pastor, and proceeded, in a pleasant, off-hand manner, and a loud voice, to give a few of the reasons which inclined him to pronounce the panorama a humbug.

“Being deadheads,” sarcastically observed Tiffles to Marcus Wilkeson, “of course they come early, and take the best seats.”

The next customer was a poor but jovial mechanic, having a red-faced little wife slung on his arm.  This humble individual paid down fifty cents in bright new silver to the grim treasurer, entered the hall, and took seats about halfway up.  “It’s a splendid affair, Sally, this ’ere pannyrammer, I’ll bet anything.”  “Sha’n’t we enjoy it, John!” returned that healthy young woman.

More work for the amiable Tiffles, but none for the melancholy Wilkeson.  Two more clergymen with families, the County Judge, the local railroad agent, all the members of the Board of Freeholders, and several other people, who, according to the landlord of the United States Hotel, were highly influential in moulding public opinion, and were in the habit of receiving free tickets.