Many times since when
passing there I have thought that those street hawkers must have a
certain picturesque and even humorous value, and hoping to find it I
have stopped to listen. But the moment I stop they win me with their
everlasting logic, and then blessed if I can write them up. They have
the same effect upon others. I have seen chambers of commerce and stock
exchangers and professors from Berkeley passing with a supercilious
glance which did very well so long as they kept moving. But once let
them step into the magic ring and they too became mesmerized and stood
there gaping in spellbound interest. "Logic is logic, that's all I say."
Those hawkers are artists, skilled in the arts and wiles of
persuasiveness. There is one with a long, horse-hair wig which he
occasionally brushes back from his eyes with a dignified flourish. This
man has found the supreme elixir and the secret of perpetuity. He is the
only man in the world, this modern Ponce de Leon, who knows the secret.
Surely we need not blush to listen to its exposition, $2 is a small sum
to pay for such a bonanza. Forty thousand people have used it in the
last thirty-nine days. Think of it. "Take it right out into the crowd
and sniff it for yourself," he urges and somehow that breaks the spell,
and strong men look foolishly at each other and move a-way.
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