good, bad and very bad--all predicting the
perpetual success of the minstrel enterprise. There was a lull in the
gaiety. The toastmaster announced as there was no prepared program all
would be expected to say something. He thereupon introduced one of
Alfred's tormentors.

The fellow arose, cleared his throat and made a laborious attempt to
speak a few intelligible words, concluding with an indelicate story.
The landlord tiptoed across the room closing the door that none might
overhear. With a maudlin leer he followed the landlord with his eyes, as
he shouted: "Thanks, Landy, this ain't a ladies' story." As he sat down
there was neither laughter nor applause.

The toastmaster called upon Alfred. He was overcome with bashfulness and
did not arise until several urged him to say something. "Get up, get
up," urged the two men opposite. Alfred arose, so confused he could not
articulate. A voice shouted: "Tell them about the panorama."

Alfred began Palmer's lecture. It had no application to the occasion,
but few understood it, there was an oppressive silence. Alfred had no
idea of when to cease talking, and would probably have given the whole
lecture, had not Bill Young, a musician, one who took a very great
interest in him, seized him by the arm, shaking him forcibly: "Here,
here; you forgot the song, you promised to sing for us." Bill continued:
"Gentlemen: Alfred will now give you a correct imitation of an old maid
singing 'Barbara Allen.'"

He gave the imitation so cleverly that the guests applauded again and
again. As he ended the song, his eyes closed, imitating the old maid,
something soft and mushy struck him on the breast of his white shirt.
The juice spattered into his face and over those near him.

A glance at the mushy mess, Alfred's eyes fell on the two men opposite
him. One was looking apologetically at the gentleman next Alfred who was
wiping his face with his napkin; the other laughing tantalizingly.

Retaliation was speedy. It was not two seconds after the decayed tomato
landed on Alfred until a large platter of soft salad of some sort, a
sugar bowl and several smaller dishes were landing just where aimed.

One of Alfred's tormentors lay upon the floor, his face and vest
literally covered with salad and other cold lunch. The other was making
for the door, dodging plates and cups that flew perilously near his
head.

Alfred, being the swifter, soon overtook the fleeing man. There was a
short struggle,