ed me greatly of an Indian war-dance.

Acting upon the suggestion of Mr. Bennett, I had dressed myself in my
buckskin suit, and I naturally attracted considerable attention;
especially when I took part in the dancing and exhibited some of my
backwoods steps, which, although not as graceful as some, were a great
deal more emphatic. But when I undertook to do artistic dancing, I found
I was decidedly out of place in that crowd, and I accordingly withdrew
from the floor.

I occasionally passed an evening at Niblo's Garden, viewing the many
beauties of "The Black Crook," which was then having its long run, under
the management of Jarrett & Palmer, whose acquaintance I had made, and
who extended to me the freedom of the theater.

Ned Buntline and Fred Maeder had dramatized one of the stories which the
former had written about me for the _New York Weekly_. The drama was
called "Buffalo Bill, the King of Border Men." While I was in New York it
was produced at the Bowery Theater; J.B. Studley, an excellent actor,
appearing in the character of "Buffalo Bill," and Mrs. W.G. Jones, a fine
actress, taking the part of my sister, a leading _role_. I was curious to
see how I would look when represented by some one else, and of course I
was present on the opening night, a private box having been reserved for
me. The theater was packed, every seat being occupied as well as the
standing-room. The drama was played smoothly, and created a great deal of
enthusiasm.

The audience, upon learning that the real "Buffalo Bill" was present,
gave several cheers between the acts, and I was called on to come out on
the stage and make a speech. Mr. Freleigh, the manager, insisted that I
should comply with the request, and that I should be introduced to Mr.
Studley. I finally consented, and the next moment I found myself standing
behind the footlights and in front of an audience for the first time in
my life. I looked up, then down, then on each side, and everywhere I saw
a sea of human faces, and thousands of eyes all staring at me. I confess
that I felt very much embarrassed--never more so in my life--and I knew
not what to say. I made a desperate effort, and a few words escaped me,
but what they were I could not for the life of me tell, nor could any one
else in the house. My utterances were inaudible even to the leader of the
orchestra, Mr. Dean, who was sitting only a few feet in front of me.
Bowing to the audience, I beat a hasty retreat into