Here Clarence Duval turned up, and thereby hangs a story.

Clarence was a little darkey that I had met some time before while in Philadelphia, a singer and dancer of no mean ability, and a little coon whose skill in handling the baton would have put to the blush many a bandmaster of national reputation.

I had togged him out in a suit of navy blue with brass buttons, at my own expense, and had engaged him as a mascot.

He was an ungrateful little rascal, however, and deserted me for Mlle.

Jarbeau, the actress, at New York, stage life evidently holding out more attractions for him than a life on the diamond.
Tom Burns smuggled him into the carriage that day, tatterdemalion that he was, and when we reached the grounds he ordered us to dress ranks with all the assurance in the world, and, taking his place in front of the players as the band struck up a march, he gave such an exhibition as made the real drum major turn green with envy, while the crowd burst into a roar of laughter and cheered him to the echo.
When, later in the day, I asked him where he had come from, he replied that Miss Jarbeau had given him his release that morning.