They said that as I had never spoken in public, I would break down in the delivery, anyhow.  I was disconsolate now.  But at last an editor slapped me on the back and told me to “go ahead.”  He said, “Take the largest house in town, and charge a dollar a ticket.”  The audacity of the proposition was charming; it seemed fraught with practical worldly wisdom, however.  The proprietor of the several theatres endorsed the advice, and said I might have his handsome new opera-house at half price —­fifty dollars.  In sheer desperation I took it—­on credit, for sufficient reasons.  In three days I did a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of printing and advertising, and was the most distressed and frightened creature on the Pacific coast.  I could not sleep—­who could, under such circumstances?  For other people there was facetiousness in the last line of my posters, but to me it was plaintive with a pang when I wrote it: 

“Doors open at 7 1/2.  The trouble will begin at 8.”

That line has done good service since.  Showmen have borrowed it frequently.  I have even seen it appended to a newspaper advertisement reminding school pupils in vacation what time next term would begin.  As those three days of suspense dragged by, I grew more and more unhappy.  I had sold two hundred tickets among my personal friends, but I feared they might not come.  My lecture, which had seemed “humorous” to me, at first, grew steadily more and more dreary, till not a vestige of fun seemed left, and I grieved that I could not bring a coffin on the stage and turn the thing into a funeral.  I was so panic-stricken, at last, that I went to three old friends, giants in stature, cordial by nature, and stormy-voiced, and said: 

“This thing is going to be a failure; the jokes in it are so dim that nobody will ever see them; I would like to have you sit in the parquette, and help me through.”

They said they would.  Then I went to the wife of a popular citizen, and said that if she was willing to do me a very great kindness, I would be glad if she and her husband would sit prominently in the left-hand stage-box, where the whole house could see them.  I explained that I should need help, and would turn toward her and smile, as a signal, when I had been delivered of an obscure joke—­“and then,” I added, “don’t wait to investigate, but respond!”

She promised.  Down the street I met a man I never had seen before.  He had been drinking, and was beaming with smiles and good nature.  He said: 

“My name’s Sawyer.  You don’t know me, but that don’t matter.  I haven’t got a cent, but if you knew how bad I wanted to laugh, you’d give me a ticket.  Come, now, what do you say?”

“Is your laugh hung on a hair-trigger?—­that is, is it critical, or can you get it off easy?”

My drawling infirmity of speech so affected him that he laughed a specimen or two that struck me as being about the article I wanted, and I gave him a ticket, and appointed him to sit in the second circle, in the centre, and be responsible for that division of the house.  I gave him minute instructions about how to detect indistinct jokes, and then went away, and left him chuckling placidly over the novelty of the idea.