pay any special attention to this
newspaper talk about the Comstock crowd having caught me short a big
line of November lard. I never sell goods without knowing where I can
find them when I want them, and if these fellows try to put their
forefeet in the trough, or start any shoving and crowding, they're going
to find me forgetting my table manners, too. For when it comes to funny
business I'm something of a humorist myself. And while I'm too old to
run, I'm young enough to stand and fight.

First and last, a good many men have gone gunning for me, but they've
always planned the obsequies before they caught the deceased. I reckon
there hasn't been a time in twenty years when there wasn't a nice "Gates
Ajar" piece all made up and ready for me in some office near the Board
of Trade. But the first essential of a quiet funeral is a willing
corpse. And I'm still sitting up and taking nourishment.

There are two things you never want to pay any attention to--abuse and
flattery. The first can't harm you and the second can't help you. Some
men are like yellow dogs--when you're coming toward them they'll jump up
and try to lick your hands; and when you're walking away from them
they'll sneak up behind and snap at your heels. Last year, when I was
bulling the market, the longs all said that I was a kindhearted old
philanthropist, who was laying awake nights scheming to get the farmers
a top price for their hogs; and the shorts allowed that I was an
infamous old robber, who was stealing the pork out of the workingman's
pot. As long as you can't please both sides in this world, there's
nothing like pleasing your own side.

There are mighty few people who can see any side to a thing except their
own side. I remember once I had a vacant lot out on the Avenue, and a
lady came in to my office and in a soothing-sirupy way asked if I would
lend it to her, as she wanted to build a _creche_ on it. I hesitated a
little, because I had never heard of a _creche_ before, and someways it
sounded sort of foreign and frisky, though the woman looked like a good,
safe, reliable old heifer. But she explained that a _creche_ was a baby
farm, where old maids went to wash and feed and stick pins in other
people's children while their mothers were off at work. Of course, there
was nothing in that to get our pastor or the police after me, so I told
her to go ahead.

She went off happy, but about a week later she dropped in again,
looking sort of diss