 Ancient Greeks never used napkins. A man loses a job through mistaken identity. The man who broke the bank in Monte Carlo really lived. Can you imagine that? This is Lindsay McCurry, ladies and gentlemen, and my gang and I are with you once more to delve into the dusty tomes of ancient animals and the yellowing pages of newspapers to bring you another series of amazing facts. We'll be on the air with the first one in just a minute and a half, so stick around. And now we're ready to present our first item on this session of Can You Imagine That? Let's see what pops up first. Well, here's a juicy little item from the etiquette books of antiquity. If you had been invited to dine at the home of any of the better class of people of ancient Greece, you wouldn't have found a napkin by your place. No, no napkin. But you would have found small pieces of bread with which you could wipe up a drop or two from a dripping pomegranate or overripe olive. The old Greeks used these little bits of bread exactly the way we use napkins today. The only difference was that in those days they didn't save them or put them into napkin rings for the next meal. Instead, they just dropped them out of the floor where some of the household pets would pick them up and eat them. And maybe the Greeks had a word for that too, hmm? Beware the Ides of March. Beware the Ides of March. That's what the soothsayer said to Julius Caesar. But can you imagine that, says to you. Beware of mistaken identity. Must you have a reason? All right, here it is. This little incident happened in 1881 in Burlington, Iowa. On the previous day in January, the legislature had just convened and the town was rapidly filling with office holders and office seekers. Up in front of one of the leading hotels drove an imposing carriage. Very well. Here's a dime for your trouble. Just put my trunk on the veranda. I'll carry my portmanteau. Yes, sir. Room, please, with bath. Yes, sir. Register, please. Thank you. Now, shall I have a porter bring your trunk up, sir? No, I'll find a porter myself. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Your valise will be in your room. You're there. Yes. Sir, if you please. Yes, sir. My trunk is right here on the veranda. Bring it up to my room. Oh, right away, sir. Of course, right away. Room 36. Yes, sir. What are you charged for your services? 25 cents, please. Thank you, sir. Now, do you know Governor Grimes when you see him? Oh, very well, sir. Good. Give him my card and tell him I want an interview with his earliest convenience. Why are you staring at that card? Is this your name? Of course it's my name. Permit me. I am Governor Grimes. At your service, sir. You? You are Governor Grimes? Oh, my dear sir, I beg of you. Please, excuse me. A thousand. Perfectly all right, young man. You may have your interview right this minute. Oh, thank you, sir. Yes. I received your letter of application and I was much impressed by it. I thought you would be well suited to the position you applied for, but, sir, you have just given me a marked quarter worth just 20 cents and not 25 cents. Any man who would cheat a working man out of a measly five cents would cheat the public treasury out of much more if he had the chance. Oh, but your excellency, I... That is all. Good evening. Remember that passage from the 16th chapter of Proverb? Ride, goeth before destruction and an haughty spirit before a fall. In these days, when hundreds of thousands of persons are carried at tremendous speed every year throughout the entire world in airplanes, we may forget the intrepid spirits who first took flight in the air. More than 160 years ago, on October 15th, 1778, Jean-Farsois Pialtre climbed into a small basket to which he had attached a smoke-filled bag. He had with him a small smoking stove which kept the bag above him inflated. At last, everything was ready and Pialtre gave the signal to cut the ropes holding his strange contraption to the ground. As the last line was severed, this true pioneer of aviation arose and floated in his little basket over his native city of Metz, France. A salut, then, to Jean-Farsois Pialtre, the first human to take flight in a balloon. 15 years later, on September 19th, 1783, Joseph Montgomery was a bit more cautious. Instead of going up himself in his balloon, he sent aloft three passengers who, when the balloon had descended, were discovered to be alive and well. No record is available of their emotional reactions for those three passengers were a sheep, a duck, and a rooster. Can you imagine that? Well, most of you, of course, have heard at one time or another the famous old song, The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo. But did you ever know that the inspiration of that song was not at all the figment of the imagination of Fred Gilbert, who wrote it? No, sir, it's an actual fact. There was a man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. It was in 1891 in the tiny principality of Monaco that one day the son of the founder of Monte Carlo, now operating in the casino, Camille Blanc, called one of his oldest and most expert group years under the Desmond basement office. Sit down, Castangio. Oui, Monsieur Blanc? Well, he is coming at last. Really? Who? This Englishman, Charles H. Wayne. Ah! So he has been fortunate in England. But well known is forever lucky in Monte Carlo. You remember what your old father used to say? Red wins sometimes. Black wins sometimes. But Blanc always. Ah, yes, yes, I know. But I am fearful, Castangio. Yes, Monsieur Wells has been too fortunate. He has won too much in several financial ventures. Now he may do the same here. I appoint you Grand Chef de Parti. You will stand by him wherever he is while in the casino. Watch him carefully. Report to me if you notice the slightest indication of trickery. You understand? Oui, Monsieur. I will watch him. A few days later, Charles H. Wells arrived in Monte Carlo, registered in one of the luxurious hotels and subsequently made his nonchalantly confident way to the spacious casino. But they were ready for him, or so they thought. Bonjour, Monsieur Wells, and welcome to the casino Monte Carlo. Yes, thank you. Thank you so much. Will you take me to a rule at table, please? At once, Monsieur. This way, please. Thank you. Thank you so much. Ah, here's an excellent table, Monsieur. Emile is one of our most expert croupiers. Good. Pleasure way, George, please. I put 70 francs on the table. Number three in black, please. The maximum on number five. The maximum, Monsieur? Emile, Monsieur has said the maximum. Of course. Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you so much. Now, the same. Well, on and on went the luck of the amazing Mr. Wells. Around and around spun Dame Fortune's wheel and always did Mr. Wells win. Whenever he appeared, the croupiers fell into a fit of consternation. His fame sped around the casino until the number of bettors placing wagers on the same number Wells selected had to be limited, greatly to the obvious annoyance of those eliminated. Camille Blanc was so certain that the Englishman's winnings must be the result of some sort of fraud that he set 10 of his best spies to watch Wells night and day, but never could they discover any evidence of collusion. Wells' astounded good fortune was sheer luck. He had no system and played numbers all over the felt-covered table. At last, a few months later, he left Monaco to return to England. But the notoriety that his visit had brought to the casino sent thousands of avid gamblers to the tables, thousands from all over the world who were bent upon emulating the success of the famed man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. If Wells had broken the bank 50 times, the advertising would have been worth the cost. At length, Wells returned, repeated his former success for a time, and then... Number nine on the red. I will do, number nine on the red. Our wager's in, our wager's in. Wager's closed. Oh, he's... Number six, black. Well, I'll still play nine on the red. Yes, sure, right, number nine. I will stay with number nine two years. Number ten, black. Well, no matter. I shall still play number nine. Well, the last time I will play number nine. I do it. Number five, black. And Charles H. Wells kept on losing. His luck had changed. He turned to his old favorite number five, lost again and again and again. And one day, as the grand chef departee reported to Camille Blanc that the Englishman had suddenly disappeared, the casino's owner laughed softly as he seemed to hear the spirit of his father, old François Blanc, founder of the resort, whispered to him, He who breaks the bank today will be broken by the bank tomorrow. Chorus from the sunny southern shore. I, too, Matty Carlo, went just to raise my winner's rent. Dame Fortune smiled upon me as she'd never done before. And I've now such lots of money, I'm a gent. Yes, I've now such lots of money, I'm a gent. As I've walked along a path no longer than independent hair, you can hear the girls declare she must be a millionaire. You can hear them sigh and wish to die. You can see them with the other eye at the man who broke the bank. I stay indoors till after lunch and then my daily walk to the great triumphal arch is one grand triumphal march. Observed by each observer with the keenness of a hawk, I'm a mass of money linen silk and starch. I'm a mass of money linen silk and starch. As I've walked along a path no longer than independent hair, you can hear the sigh and wish to die. You can see them with the other eye at the man who broke the bank. And there you have it, another session of Can You Imagine That. This is Lindsay McCarrie reminding you that we'll be back again on this same station very soon with another batch of odd facts and hidden human interest news stories. And until then, it's goodbye now.