BENJAMIN ROCHESTER was not the only person in Kenosha into whose brain a germ of suspicion concerning the boys had found lodgment. The very dapper and polite hotel clerk, having overheard scraps of conversation between Dave and Victor which plainly indicated an unusual state of affairs, set his thoughts in motion.
“It did seem mighty odd to me when that long-legged chap beat it,” he murmured, softly. “Queer, too, that a parcel of boys should be sporting around in a machine fit for a multi-millionaire. I won’t say there’s anything wrong about it, but——”
A step attracted his attention.
Dave Brandon, wearing his usual good-natured smile, had approached the desk.
“I was wondering if I could be accommodated here for a few days,” began the historian, blandly. “You see——”
The clerk smiled affably. He also coughed apologetically. His thoughts ran like this: “Oh, no, my fine fellow, you can’t work any slick scheme on us.” Then he said:
“Very sorry, sir, our terms are strictly cash in advance, especially when luggage has been taken away. Of course I don’t doubt that you’re all right,” he added, in a tone which expressed all the doubt in the world.
“Oh!” exclaimed Dave.
“Yes,” said the clerk.
The historian remained thoughtful for a moment.
“Pardon me,” he said, quietly turning away.
“He looks like a pretty good sort,” mused the clerk, glancing at Dave’s retreating form. “Still, you never can tell; usually they’re the slickest kind.”
A few minutes later Dave reappeared.
“When Victor Collins comes in will you kindly give him this?” he said, handing the clerk a sealed envelope.
Once outside, Dave, with a twinkle in his eye, began to walk as though he had some important mission to perform.
“Well, well!” His smile broadened. “I was certainly never placed in such a remarkable situation before. It has an element of grim humor in it, too. But for this hungry feeling I’d laugh out loud. Stranded! Think of the fearfulness of it! Actually stranded!”
Dave’s reflections, however, did not drive away his cheerful expression.
“Now that the chaps have disappeared,” he mused, “their kindly support must needs be withdrawn. Here I am, left high and dry on the shores of adversity, with two awful alternatives facing me: to borrow, or not to borrow; to depend upon myself, or not to depend upon myself.”
The humor of it all appealed irresistibly to the historian; he laughed to himself, although his eyes were turned longingly toward a restaurant in the window of which a tempting collection of food products was displayed.
“There’s no telling how or when we fellows will get together again,” mused Dave. “Something has to be done quickly. I believe I’ve struck the best plan. Anyway, it won’t do any harm to try it. Although”—he laughed aloud—“I reckon little Vic will be considerably surprised—even shocked.”
Dave had completely thrown off his usually languid air. He walked briskly, with a certain look in his eye which his chums would have known meant a determination not to be swerved.
He slackened his rapid pace only when a group of circus tents finally appeared in view. A few minutes later he crossed the lot, directing his steps toward the mess tent.
He found it crowded with men and women seated before rough board tables. A savory odor filling the enclosure made Dave sniff the air with keen relish. It also served to increase his tremendous desire for a good square meal.
Several waiters in white caps and aprons, balancing trays, hustled along the narrow aisles. A constant rattle of dishes and the jingle of knives and forks mingled in with the buzz of conversation. Sometimes a bawling voice sharply punctuated this medley of sound, and now one close at hand suddenly roared out:
“Hey! Watcher want?”
Dave looked around, to find himself the target for many pairs of staring eyes. It was a little embarrassing—very little, however. He looked over the rows of grinning faces and was about to reply when a boy not far off suddenly popped up from his seat.
“Well, if it ain’t Jumbo ag’in!”
A roar of mirth echoed through the mess tent. Sallies began flying thick and fast. Dave, however, stood his ground.
“I’m looking for Mr. Whiffin,” he said, calmly.
Joe Rodgers, arrayed in the reddest of red vests, put his small form in motion, and, with remarkable disregard for the feet and shins about him, pushed his way forward.
“Hey!” screeched Joe, shaking his fist at a particularly loud-voiced person who was busy hurling questions at Dave. “Let that ’ere feller alone. I’m his guardeen.”
“Where is Mr. Whiffin, Joe?” asked Dave.
“I dunno. But if ye hear a row goin’ on anywheres steer fur it, an’ you’ll find him,” answered Joe. “What d’ye want with ’im, anyway?”
Dave, uttering a sigh of relief, withdrew from the curious stares, the loud voices and general noise and confusion which pervaded the tent. Joe was at his side.
“What d’ye want with Whiffin, Jumbo?” he repeated.
“Joe,” remarked Dave—he placed his hand on the lad’s broad shoulder—“if you don’t mind, I’d rather you’d call me Dave—Dave Brandon’s my name.”
“All right. I’ll call you Dave Jumbo,” said Joe, gravely.
The historian burst into a hearty laugh.
“Dave Jumbo?”
“Oh, I’m wise to what ye wants, Dave.” Joe stared earnestly into the other’s face for an instant. “Ye’re a good feller, all right—I kin see that,” he exclaimed. “Say,—what’s became o’ the little grouch?”
Dave explained.
“Gone off for to eat, eh? Well, did ye take sich a fancy to Whiffin ye couldn’t stay away from the show, eh?”
“Joe, I’m looking for a job.”
Joe’s eyes bulged out with real astonishment.
“What—what!” he gasped. “You’re kiddin’ me, for sure.”
“But say, what does a feller wearin’ clothes like them you’ve got on want with a job?” The idea apparently staggered “Mister” Joe Rodgers. He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. “Aw, git out!” he sniffed, after a moment of deep reflection. “Ye can’t git across with no sich stuff as that.”
It took Dave five minutes of valuable time to make Joe credit the earnestness of his intention. But once convinced, Joe immediately became the historian’s enthusiastic ally.
“But—but I don’t believe ye kin do it,” he said, doubtfully.
“Lead me to Whiffin, and we’ll see,” laughed Dave.
After a short search they found the manager of “Spudger’s Peerless” at the entrance to the main tent.
“Well?” he demanded, as Dave spoke up.
“I understand that you need the services of a good barker,” began Dave.
“What’s that to you?” demanded Peter Whiffin, in a querulous tone, arching his eyebrows in surprise.
“Only that I’d like to have the job myself, sir.”
The manager looked at the stout boy as though he had never heard anything quite so strange in all his life.
“What?” he snarled. “You—you—get out; go away from here a thousand miles!”
“Give ’im a chanc’t, Mr. Whiffin,” pleaded Joe. “Maybe he kin make good.”
“Make good, nothin’!” growled the other. “There ain’t anything to prewent your goin’.”
“Only a powerful disinclination to drag myself away from Spudger’s Peerless Circus and Menagerie,” laughed Dave. “Come now, Mr. Whiffin”—he changed his jocular tone to one of seriousness—“I know that a barker is absolutely necessary to the success of your show. As Joe says, give me a chance.”
Mr. Peter Whiffin seemed to hesitate. He looked sharply at the boy; then, reaching a sudden decision, crooked his forefinger and turned on his heel.
Dave, with Joe not far behind him, followed the manager into the menagerie tent.
A really delightful odor of sawdust filled the air. Colossus, Titan and Nero stood in a corner, restlessly swinging their trunks, while in the open dens lined up on either side savage animals paced ceaselessly to and fro.
“Now see here,” began Peter Whiffin, cocking his head to one side and looking very fierce indeed, “I wouldn’t listen to yer yawp for eight seconds but for two things: first, you’ve got the biggest nerve of any boy I ever see; an’ second, I do need a barker. But I’m from Missouri—if yer know what that means.”
“Want to be shown, eh?” laughed Dave.
He stepped off a few paces, and, with a wink at Joe, began a steady flow of eloquence, describing Spudger’s great show in the highly imaginative language of a press agent.
“I’ve heard worse,” commented Peter Whiffin, grudgingly, attempting to hide his satisfaction. “Give us another round.”
An expression of surprise on the manager’s face gradually deepened. Dave, thoroughly imbued with the humorous side of the proceeding, and determined to do himself credit, had managed to cast aside all feelings of embarrassment. He raised his voice until its strong, clear notes fairly rang through the tent.
“But did ye ever speak before a mob?”
“I’ve recited in school many times,” answered Dave.
“Well, this job ain’t like speakin’ to a lot o’ kids, mind yer,” warned Mr. Whiffin. “I reckon you’ll feel like takin’ to the tall timber when ye faces a real crowd.”
“I’ll risk it,” said Dave, in a confident manner.
“An’ I’m game enough to take a chance on ye.” Peter Whiffin cast an angry look toward Joe Rodgers, whose joy at the decision seemed altogether out of proportion to its importance. “Ye kin try it this afternoon. But ye’ll need to git the biggest kind o’ a hustle on ye; the show’s goin’ to start mighty soon.”
“All right, Mr. Whiffin. What’s the pay?”
“For this afternoon an’ to-night two dollars an’ grub, in case ye make good.”
Whiffin led the way to the entrance, and, as they walked outside, Dave’s eyes ran over the lot. A large number of grown people, as well as children were headed toward it. He saw that haste was, indeed, necessary.
“I’ll skip over to the mess tent now,” he said, briskly, “and——”
“What! Ye ain’t had no grub yit?” exclaimed Mr. Peter Whiffin, in astonishment.
“No! But——”
“Well, don’t waste your time in jawin’. Take ’im over, you Joe. Then git right back on the job, or you’ll hear somethin’ ye don’t like. Report to me in fifteen minutes, young feller.”
“That’s Whiffin,” growled Joe, as the two promptly walked away. “Him an’ me don’t hit it nohow. Say, Jumbo—I mean Dave—you’ve got nerve, all right. If ye kin chuck the talk to the crowd as well as ye did afore Whiffin you’ll have Jack Gray a-guessin’.”
The mess tent was almost deserted when Dave, escorted by Joe Rodgers, to the amazement of several waiters, a clown, and a few members of the “Celebrated Randolpho family,” wizards of the flying trapeze, walked up to a table and sat down.
“What ees this?” murmured Randolpho, Senior, who, however, was no relation to the other “Randolphos.” “Aha, it ees the same fat boy I have see here before.”
Joe Rodgers immediately made Mr. Whiffin’s orders known to those in charge, and in a few minutes the historian was served by a grinning and much mystified waiter.
It is very likely that Victor Collins’ fastidious tastes would have caused him to sniff at the circus fare, but Dave had roughed it too long in the open to be over-particular. So he began to eat with a heartiness that increased the grin on the waiter’s face.
“Ah,” murmured Dave, a short time later, “depending upon one’s self is the real thing, after all.”