CHAPTER XIII
UNDER THE BIG TOP
“WHAT’S that you say—a note for me?” queried Victor Collins.
“Yes, sir.” The dapper hotel clerk laid a rather undue emphasis on the word “Sir.”—“Here it is.”
Victor took the envelope, studied the inscription, then held it up to the light, and, as all these proceedings gave him no clue as to the contents, he presently tore it open.
“I wonder what this means,” he murmured. “Gee; the big boob!” he exclaimed, half-aloud, an instant later. “Now what do you know about that?”
“No bad news, I hope?” ventured the inquisitive clerk.
“Nothing that will get in the papers, I guess,” growled Victor, as he began to read these lines a second time:
“DEAR VIC:—
“Desperate cases require desperate remedies. The absent food treatment does not suit my particular constitution. Really, I feel hungry enough to eat brass tacks.
“My adventurous career seems to be not yet over, so you will find me at ‘Spudger’s Peerless.’ Our stay in Kenosha is likely to be a good thing for the paper industry after all.
“Your friend,
“DAVE B.”
“Well, now, I’d like to know why in thunder he’s gone to the circus.”
The frown on Victor’s face deepened. With a curt nod to the clerk he walked outside.
“By George, it wasn’t much advantage to me when Blakelets steered this bunch of great depending-upon-themselves fellows up to our front door,” he thought, almost savagely. “Wish he hadn’t stopped until they were a thousand miles away. Everything has gone wrong; dandy motor boat trip knocked in the head, and here I am—— Oh, gee, but it does make me tired.”
Then Victor stopped short, struck by a sudden idea which made his eyes fairly flash.
“I do wonder, now, if this scrawl and all that howl about being broke is just a big, silly bluff. Maybe the Indian is taking in the show and expects me to come chasing over after him. Well, I simply won’t do it—that’s all.”
Victor’s jaws snapped together. Within a few minutes his mind was made up.
“I’ll skip over to Uncle Ralph’s,” he muttered. “Maybe Phil Malone is there.”
Captain Bunderley, being a bachelor, employed Phil as housekeeper and general utility man.
In half an hour Victor reached his uncle’s residence, which stood back on a wide avenue. A graveled path led across a fine lawn. Tastefully arranged flower beds and little cedars planted here and there gave quite an air of elegance to the surroundings. Over the pillared porch clinging vines swayed in the wind, the green leaves thickly interspersed with those of a golden and ruddy hue.
One glance at the tightly closed mansion was enough to convince Victor that his trouble had been for nothing. An air of melancholy silence seemed to brood over the place. Dry autumn leaves bestrewed the porch and steps, every now and then apparently becoming endowed with life as they rustled away for a few feet.
Impatiently Victor bounded up the steps.
“I’ll ring, anyway,” he said to himself.
As the lad expected, there was no response.
“Nothing doing,” he growled. “Hasn’t this been a real peach of a day! But I’m not done with the Rambler Club yet.”
Victor didn’t enjoy himself during the rest of the afternoon. He visited the wharf again, only to find the “Fearless” still missing, and finally, tired and disgusted, wandered off to the public library.
The afternoon waned; then night threw a mantle of blackness over the city. After supper at a convenient restaurant, he decided to take a flying look at “Spudger’s Peerless,” then return to the hotel.
A bleak wind continually moaned and howled, seizing upon the telegraph wires as an instrument to send forth musical chords. Many of the streets were lonely and frigidly silent. Victor, not accustomed to being out at night, passed shadowy, mysterious-looking corners with a touch of fear tugging at his heart. He was glad indeed to see a fantastic array of lights coming into view and the circus tents faintly luminous against the sky.
At length he found himself among the throngs crowding toward the barker’s stand. And once there the lawyer’s son received the surprise of his life. It was difficult to credit either his eyes or ears.
He stopped short, to stare in utter bewilderment at a familiar face and form.
“Why—why, it’s Brownie—Brownie—sure as I live!” he gasped. “Well, by George!”
No words could quite express Victor Collins’ astonishment. He felt, too, a pang of disappointment in the realization that his plan for humbling Dave had so completely failed. He edged his way further forward, listening eagerly to every word of the barker’s stirring appeal.
Victor had never thought that in one person could two such different manners exist. It was no longer the easy-going, indolent Dave he saw before him, but a bold, fearless lad who always had a ready retort on his tongue for any quip hurled at him from the audience.
A different feeling regarding the “Big Indian” came into Victor’s brain in spite of the fact that it wasn’t entirely welcome; he saw Dave in an entirely new light. It made him think.
There was too much going on all around, however, for his present train of thought to keep long on the track. The gasoline torches of the barker’s stand and the lights from various booths devoted to the purpose of supplying the multitude with food and drink threw a strange, fitful glare over the ever-moving crowds.
“Get your hot frankfurters! Peanuts, pretzels and lemonade!” rose crisply above the babel of sounds.
Amid the general noise and confusion, Victor began to lose sight of his grievances.
As Dave finished his “oration,” seized the mallet and hammered lustily on the gong, Victor felt his heart responding so strongly to its wild, clanging notes that the tide moving toward the ticket wagon carried him along, a willing victim.
“Hello, Brandon; hello!” he cried, eagerly. He felt even a touch of pride in knowing so prominent a personage. “I say, Brandon——”
“Have the correct change, gentlemen! Have the correct change!”
The brusk voice of the ticket seller broke in upon his sentence.
Victor, feeling himself being elbowed and jostled aside, scarcely heard the barker’s hearty greeting. Next instant a ticket was in his hand, and the next after that found him passing the portal of “Spudger’s.”
The sight of gilded cages with wild animals behind the iron bars, of three huge elephants swaying their unwieldy bodies and trunks, of flags and bunting and numerous other things apparently inseparable from circus life made the frowning lines on Victor’s face entirely disappear.
“Well, I’ll see the show anyway,” he murmured. “Gee, won’t it be a regular lark!”
Going from cage to cage he kicked up the sawdust in pure delight. Spudger’s collection of zoological specimens contained a lion, two tigers, a jaguar, three pumas, a brown bear and two coyotes. Occasionally a sullen roar or an angry snarl seemed to indicate that several members of the animal kingdom were in a very uncomfortable state of mind.
The tent was rapidly filling up, but Victor, having a reserved seat coupon, did not hurry.
He turned quickly, to gaze into the grinning face of “Mister” Joe Rodgers.
Joe looked a bit more respectable than he had during the morning hours, but not enough so to make the lawyer’s son feel any great desire to continue his acquaintance.
“Well?” he said, coldly.
“Say, kid, where did you drop from?” Then, without waiting for a response, he added, “Ain’t that big jumbo a corker—ain’t he though? Whiffin had orter be pleased. Say, that there feller knows every word in the lingo, don’t he?”
To be addressed in such a way by a mere water-carrier, especially before so many people, made Victor feel highly disgusted. With a curt nod, he turned away, and just on the instant Joe bawled out loudly:
“Hey, Dave—hey! Here’s yer little Buster, right here.”
Victor, intensely indignant, saw the stout boy, who now wore his own coat, attracted by the hail and edging his way through the crowd toward them. Dave’s face was beaming.
“Mighty glad to see you, Vic,” he exclaimed, heartily. He held out his hand. “Can’t stay but a minute; I’m due on the stand again. Surprised, Vic? What did you say, Joe? A bully spiel?—thanks!—Sir?”
This last word was spoken to a thin, melancholy-looking person who had just stepped up by the group.
“My hand, sir! Upon my word, I have yet to hear the eq’al o’ what you done in the barkin’ line to-day,” said the man, in a deep-throated voice. “My hand, sir!”
Dave took it.
“Yes, sir; it’s as far ahead of most of ’em as my act eclipses all the rest.”
“So you take some part in the show, eh?” remarked Dave, with interest. “What’s your specialty?”
The other’s sad visage brightened.
“Spudger’s wouldn’t be much without me,” he confided. “I’m Ormond de Sylveste.”
“Goodness—Ormond de Sylveste?” piped Victor.
“Yes, sir! An’ if anybody kin beat me a-ridin’ I ain’t never seen ’em—fact. Whiffin knows how waluable I am to the show. Why, I’ve had ’im so skeered thinkin’ I was about to leave that he——”
“Hey there, Bill Potts, what’s the matter with ye?” Peter Whiffin, unobserved by any of the three, had approached, his face lined with an astonishing number of wrinkles. “If yer don’t git right out o’ this here tent an’ stay out, Bill Potts, I’ll dock yer for double the time.”
All this was spoken in a low tone; but it proved sufficiently strong to induce Monsieur Ormond de Sylveste, otherwise known as Bill Potts, to leave the spot in undignified haste.
“An’ it’s time for you to climb up ag’in,” added Mr. Whiffin to Dave. “An’, as for you, ye lazy, good-for-nuthin’ scamp”—he faced Joe Rodgers—“beat it! Ye’d have Spudger’s a-supportin’ ye in idleness, I reckon.”
With a grumble of disapprobation, Joe obeyed, while Dave, who was also about to leave, stopped, as Mr. Whiffin again spoke up:
“See here, young feller”—the manager put on his most pleasant expression—“ye ain’t done so bad. Here’s your money and a couple o’ good reserved seats besides.”
“Thank you,” said Dave, politely.
“Jack Gray ain’t got over his cold yit. I think you’ll have to go along with the show to-night.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Dave, a bit startled at the prospect.
“Yes. Why not? You was broke, an’ I helped ye out; don’t deny it now.”
“I wouldn’t attempt to do so, Mr. Whiffin.”
“You kin do me a good turn, this time. We’re bound for Racine.”
Dave looked at Victor. He felt the responsibility for his welfare which had been thrust upon his shoulders.
“I can’t leave my friend, Mr. Whiffin,” he said, slowly.
“Let ’im come along.”
“That’s the scheme,” cried Victor, quite delighted. “Sure thing, Brandon.” The idea of his actually traveling with a circus took his fancy by storm. “Say yes, you big Indian.”
“I knew you’d be reasonable,” exclaimed Whiffin. “Then it’s all settled?”
“If Victor agrees, I suppose so,” answered Dave. “You’re sure now, Vic?”
“Of course I am.”
“Good!” The manager even smiled. “How much did you pay for your ticket, young feller?”
“A quarter,” answered Victor.
“Here it is.” A coin was thrust into his hand. Then Mr. Peter Whiffin exclaimed, briefly, to Dave: “Hustle back to your job now. I’ll see ye later.” And he was off.
Victor had been primed with numerous questions to hurl at the Rambler but was forced to wait until Dave reappeared, fifteen minutes later, this time in his street clothes.
“I needn’t talk any more now,” he explained. “Mr. Spudger says there are as many people inside the tent as the law allows.”
Victor soon learned all he wished to know. Unconsciously, his manner toward Dave had undergone a decided change. A boy who could calmly face an audience the way the “Big Indian” had done was worthy of a certain respect. An idea—but a very vague idea, it is true—of his own limitations, of his own shortcomings, for the first time, perhaps, stole into his head.
In a small tent adjoining the menagerie the two found that Adolphus and Zingar were the principal attractions. They had scarcely entered when the youthful giant recognized them, and, disregarding all rules of professional ethics, called loudly for both to come over.
“Little Georgy” was arrayed in a gorgeous military uniform of no known epoch, plentifully besprinkled with gilt braid and big shiny buttons. A sword dangled from his side, while a hat suggestive of Napoleon’s famous head-gear was perched on his head.
“Goodness! I’m glad to see you again,” warbled the giant, in his childish treble. “Smitty says—er—er—I mean Zingar says Potts—er—er—I mean Ormond told him you’d made a big hit. Ouch—look out!”
An inquisitive urchin, having decided in his own mind that Adolphus was perched upon wooden supports, had boldly, but without malice, deliberately kicked him on the shins.
“S’cuse me, feller,” he said, apologetically. “It’s all you, ain’t it? My, oh my, what a whopper! Don’t I wisht I was you.”
“It’s all in the point of view,” laughed Dave. “We’ll see you after the show, George. Mr. Whiffin’s close about, you know. He might be kind of peevish if he saw us talking together. How are you, Zingar?”
The dwarf stood a trifle over three feet in height, and his diminutive person was also arrayed in gorgeous attire. A little round bullet head, with gray, whimsical eyes and a laughing mouth gave him the jolliest appearance of anybody connected with the Peerless show. He made a peculiar little curtsey to the boys, but, being a real professional curio of many years’ experience, did not condescend to speak.
The two soon followed the crowd into the main tent, which presented a gala appearance. Every available seat seemed to be taken and at every point of vantage a few late arrivals were standing.
The members of the “Ten Thousand Dollar” now filed into their places, and a few preliminary notes mingled in with all those peculiar sounds which seem inseparable from a great gathering—the swelling murmur of many voices, the shrill screech of some bold urchin and the monotonous chant of the peanut and pretzel seller.
By the time the band struck up the two had taken their seats.
After three selections had been played the crowd began to grow restive. A scattered stamping of feet soon grew into a dull, steady roar, until the bravest efforts of the “Ten Thousand” were drowned in the sea of sound.
Suddenly the clanging note of a gong was heard. A “grand triumphal and gorgeous spectacle of oriental and barbaric splendor” was about to make its entry. Gilded Roman chariots drawn by “fiery” steeds three abreast, followed by Colossus, Titan and Nero, each pulling a golden car and led by gentlemen whose skin was nicely stained came first. Next were men in armor carrying huge shields and spears, and over all lights flashed with bewildering effect.
The great Ollie Spudger himself, astride a coal black horse, and escorted by a cavalcade of Arabs and Japanese—at least, they bore a resemblance to Arabs and Japanese—bowed with condescending grace to the multitude.
“Great!” laughed Victor, gleefully.
Act followed act. In the small sawdust circle the celebrated Randolpho troupe of acrobats, as well as jugglers and clowns did their best to amuse; and frequent manifestations of approval came to encourage their efforts.
“Say, just listen to that!” cried Victor, suddenly holding up his hand.
A dull moaning roar was sounding outside, and during the lulls they could hear a patter of rain beating against the canvas. A chilly wind took advantage of every opening, while the dingy canvas sides swayed back and forth in the gusts.
“The storm has broken at last,” said Dave.
“Gee!” grunted Victor. He raised his coat collar. “I guess we’re in for a good soaking, Brandon.”
“By the time the show lets out it may have lessened a bit,” returned Dave, encouragingly. “Ah ha; there is our friend, at last.”
“Hello—Bill Potts!” quoth Victor.
“Hush, lad, hush,” laughed Dave. “Ormond de Sylveste, you mean.”
Standing gracefully upon the back of a white horse, the chief equestrian of Spudger’s rode impressively into the ring. He bore no more resemblance to the melancholy-looking Bill Potts of the earlier hours than did the bright, glistening spangles and other embellishments of his costume to his old, discarded clothes. Bill Potts—temporarily, at least—existed no more; Ormond de Sylveste now reigned in his stead.
Crack! Crack! The sound of the ringmaster’s whip, rising sharply above the roar of the storm, sent the white horse into a swift gallop around the ring. Faster—still faster, but never too fast for the intrepid Ormond, pounded the flying hoofs. Gracefully he poised on one foot; with easy skill he crashed through paper-covered hoops held up by a powdered and painted clown, then turned wonderful somersaults, never missing his footing on the back of the flying steed.
Every known variety of sound which small boys can produce greeted Ormond de Sylveste as he dismounted, and, with the grace of a dancing master, bowed his thanks.
Other performers appeared and went through their turns. Mr. Ollie Spudger made a speech, and when the show finally ended apparently every one was satisfied with the grand display made by the Peerless.
The spectators had scarcely risen to their feet when the dismantling of the seats began. The blows of hammers, the sound of heavy planks being taken up and piled one upon another, the sharp commands combined with the storm to produce a din and confusion which made only the youthful care to linger.
“Guess they’re going to get ahead of the wind and pull the old canvas down over our ears,” said Victor. “Great Scott! Say——”
“What’s the matter?” asked Dave.
“Don’t you see? Why, the menagerie tent is gone.”
“So it is.”
The brightly-lighted tent which had contained the animals was no longer visible through the exit, its place being taken by a square of darkened sky.
The two hurried forward and found, to their great satisfaction, that the rain had almost ceased.
“Doesn’t it look odd?” said Victor, glancing around, and kicking up the sawdust with his foot.
“They made a mighty quick get-away,” commented Dave. “A busy scene out there, Vic.”
By the brilliant glare of a calcium light they could see that teams of horses had been hitched to the great wagons. Several were already started on their difficult journey over the muddy field.
“Who’s this coming?” exclaimed Victor, at length.
A figure, sometimes silhouetted sharply against the lights, then almost lost in shadow, was approaching on a run.
“Hello, Jumbo—I mean Dave,” yelled a lusty voice. “Where are ye? Hello!”
“Right over here, Joe,” called the historian.
“Bully! Whiffin says you an’ Buster are to go along o’ me, an’ the team’s a’ready.”