  CIRCUS was in the air. Circus had been in the air for some time, exhaled broadcast by village billboards and fences, and the fronts and exposed sides of numerous buildings. Breathing this atmosphere, small wonder is it that you and your compatriots were circus-crazy, and cared not who knew it. The circus came. From half-past four, in the pink of the dawn, until nightfall, it was given your unremitting aid and presence—the two in one. Your fellows were equally assiduous. Nothing that might be done outside the tent was left undone; nothing that might be inspected was overlooked. As for the inside, some of your friends penetrated, like yourself, with the escort of father, mother, uncle, brother, or neighbor; some, like Snoopie Mitchell, “snuk under”; but all were there. The circus went. Behind it remained, as evidences of its visit, the still contagious bills; one more welt in the shape of a ring, added to the other similar but older welts upon the face of that historic pasture patch; and a burning ambition in the breast of every youth. Now witness each back yard a training-school for tumblers, trapeze-experts, weight-slingers, jugglers, bareback-riders, and tight-rope walkers. Right among the foremost were you. “Hen and me are goin’ to have a circus,” you vouchsafed importantly at the family board. “Hen and who?” queried father, quizzically. “Hen and me.” Why fuss with grammar, when greater things were impending? It is not what one says, but what one does, that counts: at least, according to your copy-book at school, in which you had laboriously written, “Deeds, not Words,” twenty times. “We’re goin’ to give it in Hen’s barn, and you and mama’ve got to come.” “I don’t know that I can get away, having just been to one,” stated father, gravely. “I didn’t expect another so soon.” “I’ll come,” comforted mother. “When is it?” “We dunno yet; but everybody that gets in has got to bring ten pins—and bent ones don’t count, either. Hen’s mother’s comin’.” “Do you think we can spare ten pins?” inquired mother of father. The idea seemed preposterous to you, with a whole cushion bristling on the bedroom bureau; but nevertheless you awaited, with considerable anxiety, father’s reply. “I guess so,” answered father. “But members of the performers’ families ought to go in free. How’s that, John?” You shook your head decidedly. Such a suggestion must be nipped in the bud. “Naw, sir! Everybody has to pay!” There was no dearth of performers; they were as plenty as ball-players, and you had an embarrassing number of volunteers, who offered themselves as soon as the news of your circus spread through the neighborhood. Snoopie Mitchell was among the earliest. “Say, I’ll be in your circus,” he proposed. “I can skin the cat twice, an’ do the giant’s swing, an’ turn flip-flops both ways, an’—” “Pooh! That’s nothin’. So can I,” scoffed Hen. “You can’t, neither!” contradicted Snoopie. “Le’ ’s see you, now.” Hen obligingly cut a caper. “Aw, gee!” sneered the redoubtable Snoopie, in high scorn. “That ain’t no hand-spring! That’s a cart-wheel! Anybody can turn a cart-wheel! Aw, gee! Lookee here! Here’s the way you did.” He demonstrated. “Lookee!”—and again he demonstrated.—“That’s a reg’lar hand-spring.” “Well—I can do it, only my back’s lame,” faltered the abashed Hen. “And I can skin the cat, too. Can’t I, John?” You nodded. “But I’ve skun it twice, an’ John’s seen me, haven’t you, John?” trumpeted Snoopie. You nodded confirmation to this, also. “Yep,” you said; “he did, Hen; truly he did.” “Without changin’ hands?” insisted Hen. “Of course,” asserted Snoopie. Snoopie was accepted. Tom Kemp and Nixie Kemp were organizing a circus of their own, but consented to be in yours if you’d be in theirs. Over Billy Lunt occurred almost a fight, because a rival company set up the claim that he had promised them; but by bribe of a jews’-harp he was won to your side. Fat Day was asked chiefly on account of his pair of white rats, which would prove a valuable addition to the prospective menagerie. “If you’ll lemme be clown, I’ll bring ’em,” consented Fat. “But John he’s clown,” explained Hen. This was true. Before advertising for talent, Hen had preempted ringmaster, and you, clown, as the choice positions, which was only the part of ordinary discretion. “I tell you, Fat: you can be fat boy, and wiggle your ears and make folks laugh,” suggested Hen, eagerly. “Uh-uh! If I can’t be clown, I won’t be nothin’,” declared Fat. “An’ you can’t have my white rats, either.” Hen looked at you dubiously. “All right. I don’t care. Let him,” you assented moodily, kicking up the dirt with your toe. “You can be one clown, Fat, and John’ll be the other,” proffered Hen, with fine diplomacy. “And you and he can make b’lieve fight, and things. We ought to have two clowns, you know.” But the glowing picture of the two clowns did not appeal to Fat’s imagination. “Naw,” he whined. “If anybody else is goin’ to be clown, I don’t want to.” Accordingly Fat was awarded the clownship, and you said you’d just as lief be contortionist, which he couldn’t be. Clowns were really a drug on the market. Not a boy but aspired to the chair, and it required no little tact to steer them into other lines. The organization, as finally effected, was as follows: Hen, ringmaster. You, contortionist. Billy, who could hang by his toes and do other things on the trapeze, and who, as a tumbler, could stand on his head (sometimes) without touching his hands. Tom, who could do things on the trapeze, and who was a juggler learning to keep three balls going in the air. Nixie, who also could do things on the trapeze, and who was an aspiring (and at times almost an expiring) clothes-line walker. Fat, who could wiggle his ears. Snoopie, indefatigable, marvelous, a genius of one suspender, whom a special providence seemed to have endowed. Menagerie (in prospect): Don, your dog; Snap, the Kemps’ dog; Lunt’s cat; Fat’s white rats; Hen’s “bantie” rooster. A rehearsal was not only unnecessary, but impracticable as well; that is, a rehearsal in company. However, individual practice went on daily, and not a member of the troupe but emulated the most daring feats produced under Barnum’s tent, as could be testified to by the most casual observer, and by that emergency Band of Mercy, the Sisterhood of Mothers, adepts with court-plaster and needle. “Oh, John!” sighed your own mother. “How do you manage to tear your pants so! This is the third time, and in the very same place! Can’t you be careful?” “I’m practisin’ splits,” you offered. “‘Splits’?” repeated mother, densely ignorant. “Yes. You straddle, and you keep on straddlin’, and see how near you can come to sittin’; and you’ve got to get up again without usin’ your hands. There was a man and woman and little girl and boy no bigger ’n me in the circus that could go clear down till they touched. I can ’most do it.” “John!” exclaimed mother, in horror. Then she noted something else. “And your waist, too!” You condescended to explain farther. “Yes; I tumbled off the trapeze when I was swingin’. Look here!” Pulling up your sleeve you proudly exhibited an elbow. It was an elbow that earned you distinction among your comrades, although Nixie had a knee which he boasted was “skinned” much worse. The date of the circus was set for Wednesday afternoon, and that morning a show-bill, tacked upon the Schmidt front gate-post, announced it to all the world. All the little girls of the neighborhood were by turns flippant and wheedling, and boys, your rivals, were positively libelous in their derision. Schmidt’s barn-loft had long been empty of hay and tenanted chiefly by spiders and rats and mice. It was a splendid place for the circus, a commodious tent being lacking. Throughout the morning you and Hen, assisted by your associate performers, labored like fury, a profound secrecy enveloping your operations. No one except Billy’s small brother (he having sacredly been sworn “not to tell,” an investiture of confidence that gave him a decided strut) was admitted to gaze upon the advance proceedings; but the noise of hammering and other preparations was carried afar, together with a cloud of dust out of the open loft door. “Where was your parade?” asked father at noon, when, hot and excited and somewhat grimy, you feverishly attacked your well-heaped plate. “Didn’t have any,” you mumbled. “Fat wouldn’t let us take his rats out on the street, ’cause he said they’d get away; and, besides, we didn’t have wagons enough for all the cages.” But to the timid inquiries of the little girls during the morning you had replied boldly: “There ain’t goin’ to be any parade. Of course there ain’t! Do you s’pose we’re goin’ to let everybody see what we got?” At half-past one o’clock the public was invited to ascend. The ticket-taker was Billy’s small brother aforesaid, and never was receiving-teller of a national bank more vigilant or particular. “You didn’t gimme only nine!” he would accuse shrilly. “You didn’t, either! You didn’t, either! You’ve got to gimme another pin or you sha’n’t come in!” “I gave you ten! I did! I did! Didn’t I, Susie? You dropped one.” Peace would be restored by the number being made up through the prodigality of a friend, and the ruffled damsel would pass in. Your mother and Hen’s mother, and your hired girl, and the Schmidt hired girl arrived together, their appearance causing a flurry and contributing to the circus the importance due it. Mrs. Schmidt panted heavily after the toilsome climb,—she was a large, short-winded woman,—and, choosing a seat near the door, fanned herself vigorously. A few boys, after poking their heads above the floor and grinningly surveying the scene, ended by trooping in with apologetic and bantering mien. But in the main the spectators were feminine. The amphitheater, constructed of boards laid across boxes, in two lines, slowly filled. As the etiquette of the profession required that circus-performers not be seen until the time for their act, you and Hen and the other stars remained in close seclusion, huddled in the dressing-room—the far corner, veiled by a calico curtain (from the Schmidt clothes-press) tacked to convenient rafters. Meanwhile the public might enjoy the collection arrayed at one side of the loft, where was conspicuously exposed the sign, in white chalk: “Managerie.” In a soap-box with slats across the front wrathfully crouched Lunt’s gaunt gray Thomas-cat, who had been rudely awakened from a matutinal slumber in the Lunt cellar and ignominiously confined. At regular intervals he uttered an appealing, protesting “Yow!” while he glared through his bars. Next to him was Hen’s red “bantie,” also in a soap-box, but more composed. Then came Don, for whom no cage procurable was ample enough; so he was tied to a nail, which afforded him liberty to fawn impartially upon old and young, and occasionally to make frantic endeavors to reach you in the dressing-room. Next to him was Snap, the Kemps’ black-and-tan, miserable in close quarters; and at the end of the row, quaking in abject terror over the proximity of so many enemies, were Fat’s precious white rats. “Is that all the m’nag’rie you kids got? Aw, gee!” sneered the invidious boys among the spectators. “It’s more’n you got, anyhow!” you and Hen retorted from your covert. “Don’t you touch those rats!” commanded Fat, with a jealous eye out for meddling fingers. “They’re my rats.” It was very hard restraining the members of the troupe in their quarters until time was ripe. Fat, his face streaked in red and white water-colors, and wearing a costume devised by his mother from large-figured calico, was wild to exhibit himself; and Snoopie, bursting with prowess, demanded careful watching or he would anticipate the program. “Stay in here, darn you! You’ve all got to wait till the ringmaster says to come.” “Let go of me, will you!” “You sha’n’t go out! ’Tain’t your circus!” “Who’s goin’ out!” Signs of revolt manifested themselves. “Why don’t you begin?” “Gee, I’m hot!” “If you don’t begin pretty soon I’m goin’ home, and I’ll take my rats, too!” So, urged from behind, Ringmaster Hen stalked forth and announced: “We’re ready to begin now.” He swaggered and magnificently cracked his whip—a treasure consisting of a double length of leather lash, cut by the shoemaker from a square of oak calf, with a twine snapper and a skilfully whittled stock. Fat Day, needing no second summons, immediately bolted out. He gamboled and pranced and grimaced and “wiggled” his ears, to the applause of the amphitheater and the tremendous excitement of the menagerie. “Lemme! It’s my turn!” besought Snoopie. “No, lemme!” implored Nixie. “You said I could go first, didn’t you, John?” reminded Billy. Privately, you thought that the honor should be yours; but you waived your rights as proprietor and decreed: “Yes, let Billy go first, ’cause I promised.” Out went Billy and distinguished himself by all the feats in his repertoire, after each one saluting with the expansive gesture of the real professional. Having exhausted the trapeze, and having poised for a breathless instant on his head, he finished by vaulting over three saw-horses, in lieu of elephants, and plunging into the dressing-room. “Now I’m goin’,” asserted Snoopie. “Naw; it’s my turn!” opposed Tom and Nixie together. But Snoopie shoved between them and past you, and was in the ring. Snoopie Mitchell—ragged, wandering, independent, but at times despised Snoopie—was as one inspired. Never before had he such a circle of witnesses, and the wine went to his brain. He flip-flopped frontward clear across the loft from the dressing-room corner into Mrs. Schmidt’s lap, and flip-flopped backward to the dressing-room again; and bowed. He walked about on his hands; and bowed. He stood on his head (“That ain’t fair!” called Billy. “I did that!”) longer than Billy did, and while in that position spit, besides; and bowed. He did the “splits” farther than you could, and kissed his hand, while the spectators murmured various acknowledgments of his posture. He rubbed his palms and lightly sprang to the trapeze dangling from the beam. He skinned the cat, but he skinned it twice, and half into the third, and impishly hung poised, while his shoulder-joints cracked and the Schmidt hired girl moaned: “Howly saints!” He hung by his toes and threw wide his arms; but, suddenly letting go, with preconceived adroitness fell on his back, amidst muffled shrieks. He chinned himself, but he did it ten times. “Come in! That’s enough!” you ordered. He obeyed you not. Instead, he hung by his knees; he hung by one elbow and swayed and kicked; he straddled the bar and went around it faster and faster; and with feet between hands, soles against it, he went around that way, too. In the dressing-room reigned despair and lamentation. “’Tain’t fair!” wailed Tom, hotly. “I was goin’ to do some of those things myself.” “So was I!” declared Nixie. Snoopie was now juggling balls while traversing the official tight rope stretched between two of the saw-horses. “Make him come in, Hen!” you called. Hen snapped his whip at Snoopie’s bare legs, and brought him to the boards. “Quit, will you!” snarled Snoopie. “Don’t you go whippin’ me, or I’ll paste you!” “You darned old fool!” you scolded. He wiggled his ears—wiggled them much more than Fat could his—and twitched his scalp, accommodatingly turning to right and to left so that all might see. Then, breathless, crimson, perspiring, he walked on his hands into the dressing-room. “What did you do all that for?” demanded you, angrily. “Do what?” retorted Snoopie. “I didn’t do nothin’! What’s the matter with you kids, anyhow?” “You did, too!” berated Nixie. “You showed off an’ spoilt everything. I ain’t goin’ out.” “Don’t you—an’ we won’t, either!” chorused Tom and Billy. “Oh, Jock! Fat’s got his rats and he’s takin’ ’em away with him!” announced Hen. “You come back, there, Fat! Darn you! bring them back!” you cried, rushing to the rescue. Too late. Fat was stamping rebelliously down the stairs. The disintegration of Schmidt & Walker’s United Shows, through jealousy, had begun. “Aren’t you fellows comin’ out?” queried Hen. “Uh-uh! ’Tain’t any fun,” grunted Billy, spokesman. “They say they won’t play any more,” you reported to Hen. “I guess that’s all, then,” stated Hen to the spectators. With high hoots from the boys, and rustling of dresses from the ladies, the amphitheater was emptied. “I didn’t do nothin’,” insisted Snoopie, grinning. “You needn’t go to blamin’ me!” But nobody answered him; and with a derisive, “Ya-a-a! Your old show ain’t worth shucks!” he scampered below, to join riotous, admiring spirits elsewhere. “How was the circus?” asked father, politely, at supper. “Aw, Snoopie Mitchell spoilt it,” you accused. “What was the matter with Snoopie?” “Why, he went and did everything ’fore the rest had any chance—didn’t he, mama!” you asserted. “Is that so?” Father glanced at mother, and they exchanged a subtle smile. “What’s become of the receipts?” he inquired. You did not comprehend. “Papa means the pins you took in,” explained mother. “Oh, I dunno,” you responded, your chief interest just now being in your dish of strawberries. WHEN YOU RAN AWAY |
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