make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut. Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come and see it. Twenty people sings out: “What, is it over?  Is that _all_?” The duke says yes.  Then there was a fine time.  Everybody sings out, “Sold!” and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them tragedians.  But a big, fine looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts: “Hold on!  Just a word, gentlemen.”  They stopped to listen. “We are sold--mighty badly sold.  But we don't want to be the laughing stock of this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we live.  _No_.  What we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the _rest_ of the town!  Then we'll all be in the same boat.  Ain't that sensible?” (“You bet it is!--the jedge is right!” everybody sings out.) “All right, then--not a word about any sell.  Go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy.” Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that show was.  House was jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the same way.  When me and the king and the duke got home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made Jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town. The third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other two nights.  I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under