The Rose in the Ring

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> The Rose in the Ring

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

He was off with a rush. A few minutes later he was heard singing his
lay in the ring, the then popular and familiar ditty, "Whoa, Emma!"
with a crude but vociferous chorus of male voices to "join in the
refrain." Casey, without further instructions, and asking no
questions, led the youth into the men's section. Here all was
confusion. A dozen men were stripping themselves of one set of tights
to don another, for in those days the ordinary acrobat did many turns
in the process of earning his daily bread.

By the time Grinaldi returned, young Jenison was completely arrayed in
an extra costume of the clown's, a creation in red and white stripes,
much too baggy in all directions, but dry as toast. The owner of the
costume put his hands to his sides and roared with laughter.

"Casey, you serpent," he gasped, "I didn't mean that kind of a suit. I
meant my Sunday togs--the ones I go to church in, when I goes. Which I
doesn't. 'Ere, boys, step right up and listen to an announcement." The
crowd gave attention. "This 'ere chap is wanted. There's a big reward
for 'im. You've all seen the posters. He's the Jenison boy. Well, he
ain't guilty. Get the notion? We Ve got to 'elp 'im out of the
country. Mum's the word, lads. Say!" He stood back to inspect his
charge. "If you're going to wear them togs, you've got to 'ave your
face done over to match."

Whereupon he began to apply grease and bismuth to the countenance of
the amazed young patrician. The others looked on and laughed good-
naturedly. To his surprise, no one seemed to mind the fact that he was
a fugitive and an alleged slayer. They had stared at him curiously for
a moment; two or three of them exchanged whispers, that was all.

In a twinkling he was transformed into a real scaramouch. A conical
hat adorned the knit skullpiece that covered his black hair.

"Don't peep in the lookin'-glass," said Signor Anaconda, now in the
pale blue tights of a "ground and lofty" tumbler. "You'll keel over
again, plumb dead."

The flap at the entrance was jerked aside and a tall, black-mustached
man peered in upon the group.

"Where's the kid?" he demanded sharply. "My wife said he was with you,
Joey. Say, I don't like this business. They're out in front now,
looking for him. Two of 'em. Have you let him get away?"

David, peering from behind the real clown, experienced an
instantaneous feeling of aversion for Braddock, the proprietor. Even
as he quailed beneath the new peril that asserted itself in no vague
manner, he found himself wondering how this man could have come to be
the husband of his lovely benefactress.

"He's here, Tom," announced Grinaldi, shoving the boy forward.

"What's he doing in that costume?" demanded the owner, dropping the
flap and staring hard at the boy.

"His clothes were wet. Besides, if they come botherin' around back
'ere, Tom, they won't be so likely to reckernise him in these--"

"Say, do you suppose I'm going to get into a muss with these people by
hiding a murderer?" snapped Braddock. "Bring him out here. Come along,
bub."

"You're getting blamed virtuous all of a sudden, Braddock," said the
clown angrily. "'Ow about these dogs you are protectin' all the time?
What's more, this 'ere kid's innocent."

"There's five hundred dollars reward for this fellow," said Braddock,
jamming his hands into his coat pockets. "That doesn't sound like he's
innocent, does it? Besides, the officers are plumb certain he's
hanging around this show some place. I'm not going to be pestered with
constables and detectives from here to Indiana, let me tell you that.
It's bad business, monkeying with stray boys, ever since the Charley
Ross kidnapping job last year. So you lummixes have decided to protect
him, have you? Why, the whole pack of you ought to be in jail for even
thinkin' of it. Come out here, boy!"

Without a word, the boy shook himself free of Grinaldi's protecting
grasp, and stepped forward.

"I'm not willing to see these men get into trouble," he said steadily,
addressing the boss. "Give me time to change my clothes again, and
then you can call in the officers."

"Don't be a fool," exclaimed the clown. A murmur of protest arose from
the others.

"Thomas!" A woman's voice was calling from the other side of the low
canvas partition.

"That's my wife," growled Braddock. "I suppose she'll be beggin' for
you, too. What do you want?" The question was roared through the
canvas.

"Come here, please. I must speak with you."

"Change your clothes, boy," he said, after a moment of indecision.
"See that he don't get away, you fellows. If he gives you the slip,
I'll have blood, and don't you forget it."

The man had been drinking. His eyes were bloodshot and unsteady. His
face was bloated from the effects of long and continued use of
alcohol. Once on a time he had been a dashing, boldly handsome fellow;
there could be no doubt of that; the sort of youth that any romantic
girl might have fallen in love with. He was tall and straight and
powerful, despite the evidences of dissipation that his face
presented. A wonderfully vital constitution had protected his body
from the ravages of self-indulgence; the constitution of a great,
splendid human animal, in whom not the faintest sign of a once
attractive personality remained. There was no refinement there, no
mark of good breeding; all of the mirage-like glamour that may have
bewildered and deceived _her_, long years ago, was gone. What she
had evidently mistaken for the nobility of true manhood, in her
innocence and folly, was no more than the arrogance of splendid
health. This man had been beautiful in his day, and frankly pleasing.
That was long before the thing that was in his blood, and in the blood
of his fathers, perhaps, had claimed dominion: the mysterious thing
which inevitably registers the curse of the base-born, so that no man
may be deceived. Blood always tells, but usually it tells too late.

But of the Braddocks and their hateful history, more anon. Let us look
at this man as he now is, just as we have looked, perhaps too
casually, at the woman who called him husband.

A heavy black mustache, lightly touched with gray, shaded a coarse,
rather sinister mouth, from the corner of which protruded an unlighted
but thoroughly-chewed cigar. His hair and eyebrows were thick and
black. Thin red lines formed a network in his cheeks, telling of the
habits that had put them there; on his forehead there was a perpetual
scowl, a line slashed between the eyes as if laid there by a knife.
The features were not irregular, but they were of the strength that
denotes cultivated weaknesses. His chin was square and strong, heavily
stubbled with a two days' growth of beard. Eyes that were black and
sullen, stood well out in their sockets; the lids were red and thick,
and there were narrow pouches below them; the whites were bloodshot
and indefinite. He was flashily dressed in the mode of the day,
typical of his calling. A silk hat tilted rakishly over his brow. His
waistcoat was a loud brocade, his necktie a single black band, knotted
once. There was a great paste diamond in his soiled shirt-front. A
long checked coat, with tails and sidepockets, trousers of the same
material, completed his ordinary makeup. Tonight, on account of the
rain, he wore high gum boots outside of the trouser-legs.

You could hardly have mistaken his calling in those days, unless you
might have suspected him of being a gambler. In which you would not
have been wrong.

The line between his eyes seemed to deepen as he turned from the group
to join his wife in the "green room" of the tent. As the flap dropped
behind him, Grinaldi turned to the boy, who had started to unlace the
striped overshirt.

"Wait a minute," he said quickly. "Mebbe we can fix it with 'im.
She'll put in a plea for you and so will Little Starbright,--that's
what 'is daughter is called on the bills--if she gets a chance. Stay
right 'ere, youngster. I've got to go in for my girl's act now. I wish
you could see my girl. She's the queen of the air, and don't you
forget it. Ain't she, boys?"

There was a combined--apparently customary--chorus of approval.

Outside, Braddock was glowering upon his wife, who faced him
resolutely. There never had been a time when she was afraid of this
man; even though he had mistreated her shamefully, he had never found
the courage to exercise his physical supremacy. As so often is the
case--almost invariably, it may be affirmed--with men of his type and
origin, Braddock recognized and respected the qualities that put her
so far above him. Not that he admitted them, even to himself: that
would have been fatal to his own sense of justice. He merely felt
them; he could not evade the conditions for the reason that he was
powerless to analyze the force which produced them. He only knew that
somehow he merited the scorn in which she held him. There were times
when he hated her for the very beauty of her character. Then he cursed
her in bleak, despairing rage, more against himself than against her;
but never without afterward cringing in morbid contemplation of the
shudder it brought to her sensitive face.

If any one had been so bold as to accuse him of not loving her, he
would have been crushed to earth by the brute that was in him. On the
other hand, if he were timorously charged with loving her, it would
have been like him to call the venturesome one a liar--and mean it,
too, in his heart.

"But five hundred is five hundred," he was repeating doggedly in
opposition to her argument in behalf of the boy. "You don't know
whether he's guilty or not, Mary. So what's the use of all this
gabble? It makes me sick. Business is bad. We need every dollar we can
scrape up. I won't be a party to--"

"You harbor pickpockets and thieves and--yes, murderers, I'm told,
Tom. It is a shameful fact that more sneak thieves follow this show
and share with its owner than any other concern in the business. Oh, I
know all about it! Don't try to deny it. They pay a regular tribute to
you for privileges and protection. Artful Dick Cronk gave you half of
the hundred he filched from the old man at Charlottesville last week.
I--"

"Here, here!" he said in an angry whisper. "Don't talk so damned loud.
Next thing you'll be telling that sort of stuff to the girl. That'd be
a nice thing for her to think, wouldn't it? Say, don't you ever let me
hear of you breathin' a word of that kind to her. I'd--I'd beat your
brains out. Understand?"

"Oh, I'm not likely to tell her what kind of a man her father is,"
said his wife bitterly. "Take care, Tom, that she doesn't find it out
for herself. Be quiet! She is coming."

The girl, cleansed of her paint and powder, her lithe body clad in a
prim, navy blue frock, the skirt of which came below the tops of her
high-laced boots, approached hastily from the women's section. She was
tying the strings of her quaint poke-bonnet under her chin, and her
eyes were gleaming with excitement.

"Where is that boy?" she asked, looking about in some anxiety.
"Father, you should see him. He is so different from the boys who
follow--"

"We were just talking about him," interrupted her father shortly.
"He's wanted by the police, so you see he ain't so different from the
rest after all. He's a--"

"Don't, Tom," cried his wife.

"--a murderer," completed Braddock, rolling his cigar from one side of
his mouth to the other.

The girl stared at him for a moment, dumbly, uncomprehendingly. Her
lips parted and her eyes grew very wide.

"Oh, father," she cried, in low, hushed tones. Then she turned to her
mother, almost imploringly. "Is--is it true, mother?"

"Well, see here," broke in Braddock angrily. "Don't you believe me?
Haven't I said so?"

"He is the Jenison boy we were talking about last night, dearie," said
Mrs. Braddock. "I don't believe he committed that horrid crime. I
can't believe it."

"I am sure he didn't--I am sure he didn't," cried the girl
impulsively. "He is a gentleman, father. He couldn't--"

Braddock took instant offense. He hated to hear any one spoken of as a
gentleman.

"What's that got to do with it?" he demanded. "Gentleman, eh? You two
seem to think that these pretty gentlemen can't do anything wrong.
Why, they're rottener than nine-tenths of the blokes that follow this
show--every mother's son of 'em. I'm sick of having this gentleman
business thrown up to me. That's all you two talk about. I suppose you
think you're better than the company you live with. Let me tell you
this, you're show people and nothin' more. I don't give a damn who
your people are; you're my wife and my daughter, and that's all there
is to it. I won't stand this sort of--"

"Tom, you _must_ keep still," said his wife firmly. He was intoxicated;
she knew better than to argue with him, or to agree with him. "All this
has nothing to do with the boy. We must give him a chance, the same as
--you understand?"

He glared at her warningly.

"I don't protect thieves and murderers," he said quickly.

Then he whirled about and snatched aside the flap, calling to the
group of acrobats.

"Come out here, you! Step lively. I want to ask a few questions. Where
the dev--Say, haven't you got out of that suit yet? Why, you little
scuttle, I'll rip it off your back if you're not out of it in two
minutes. Hold on! Come out here first."

As Jenison walked past him the proprietor gave him a violent cuff on
the side of the head. The boy, weak and faint, reeled away and would
have fallen but for the tent pole which he managed to clutch. His face
was convulsed by sudden rage. Even while his head swam, he pulled
himself together for a leap at the man who had struck the wanton,
unexpected blow.

Braddock was huge enough and strong enough to crush the infuriated
lad, but drink had made him a coward at heart. He stooped over and
picked up an iron-ringed stake from the ground.

With a little cry of terror his daughter, recovering from her sudden
stupefaction, sprang forward and frantically clutched the man's arm.
Her mother was no less active in putting herself in front of the boy,
staying him with resolute hands. The performers who had followed David
from the room leaped in with clenched fists, glaring hatefully at
their employer. Others, in remote parts of the enclosure, hurried up,
aroused from drowsy meditation by the sharp excitement.

"Don't, father!" cried the girl in the agony of dread.

"Damn him, he may have a gun," exclaimed Braddock. "He's used one
before."

"Why did you strike me?" cried David hoarsely, his lips twitching, his
eyes glowing like coals.

"Aw, none o' that, now, none o' that," snarled Braddock, taking a step
forward.

"Why did you strike me?" repeated the boy dully.

"Calm yourself, my boy," Mrs. Braddock kept repeating insistently,
without raising her voice, always low, tense, impelling.

The tears sprang to his eyes--tears of rage and helplessness. With a
sob he turned away and leaned his head against the pole.

"Poor boy," she whispered.

"Don't you call me a brute, Casey," roared Braddock, turning upon the
contortionist in a fury. Casey had not uttered a word, but Braddock
instinctively anticipated the charge. The contortionist was afraid of
him. He drew back with a scared look in his eyes.

Mrs. Braddock was speaking quietly, compassionately to the suffering
boy. "We must be careful," she said, "not to oppose him too strongly.
Those men are out in front. He will turn you over to them if you
resort to violence. Calm yourself, do. There is still the chance that
he may change his mind. He is not really heartless. It is only his
way."

"Why did he strike me?" again fell from the lips of the fugitive.

At this moment Grinaldi came hurrying in from the ring. He took in the
situation at a glance. Behind him, peering over his shoulder, was a
black-haired young woman in pink tights and spangled trunks.

David was afterward to know this handsome, black-haired girl as Ruby
Noakes, the daughter of Grinaldi, otherwise Joey Noakes, and known to
the gaping world as Mademoiselle Roxane, the Flying Queen of the Air.

CHAPTER III

DAVID ENTERS THE SAWDUST RING

Braddock saw at once that the old clown was against him. With an ugly
imprecation he directed one of the attendants to go to the main
entrance with instructions to bring Mr. Blake and his friend back to
the dressing-tent.

"We'll see who's running this show," he declared, taking a fresh grip
on the stake, and rolling the dangling cigar over and over between his
teeth.

"Hold on, Camp," said Grinaldi, checking the attendant with a gesture.
"See 'ere, Tom," he went on earnestly, "wot's the reason you won't
give this one an even chance with the others?"

Stand aside, Christie," Braddock said to his trembling daughter.
"Don't get in the way. Oh, I'm not going to smash the cub, so don't
worry. Here! Come away from him, I say. Both of you. I won't stand for
any petting of a rascal like him. Well, I'll tell you, Joey Noakes,"
he went on, turning to the clown, "I don't mind saying I need the
money. This kid's going to be caught by somebody before long, and the
man that does it gets five hundred. It might as well be me. Business
is business, and just now business is bad. You people all know what
this infernal weather has done for us. We haven't had a paying day
since we opened, and here it is the middle of May--nearly six weeks,
that's what it is. There's a lousy three hundred dollars in the big
top to-night and half as much this afternoon. I tell you if these
rains keep up I'll have to close. It takes more than five hundred
dollars a day to run this show. I owe back salaries--all of you have
got something coming to you. Five hundred dollars velvet, that's what
this boy means to me--not for myself, mind you, but for the treasury.
That's why I'm going to turn him over, if you want to know."

"But he ain't guilty," said Grinaldi sharply.

"How do you know?" snarled Braddock. "Go and do what I told you," to
the wavering attendant. Mrs. Braddock and Christine were standing
beside the dejected boy, the former looking steadily at the face of
her husband, whose bloodshot eyes would not meet her gaze. Christine's
eyes were wide with the bewildered stare of an intelligence that has
suddenly been aroused to new aspects: she was having a glimpse of a
side to her father's character that had never been revealed to her
before.

She put forth a hand and drew Ruby Noakes close beside her, pressing
her hand tightly in actual alarm. The Noakes girl's arm went around
the slender figure, but she continued to stare curiously at the face
of the stranger in their midst. She was half a head taller than
Christine, and at least three years her senior.

"We ought to have a new clown to help out dad, Mr. Braddock," ventured
Miss Noakes coolly.

Braddock stared at her. He was not in the habit of accepting feminine
advice.

"What's that?" he barked.

"Keep still, Ruby," cautioned her father nervously. Ruby's lips parted
quickly, and then, thinking better of it, she closed them.

David's face took on a queer, uncertain expression while Braddock was
advancing his dire need of money as an excuse for turning him over.
The proprietor resumed his bitter harangue against the weather,
prophesying bankruptcy and sheriff's sales. The boy's face began to
clear. An eager, excited gleam came into his eyes. He looked about him
as if searching for some sign of corroboration in the faces of the
performers. A certain evidence of dejection had crept into more than
one countenance. It began to dawn on him that the man was more or less
sincere in his argument; even the words of others, in conflict with
his purpose, served to convince him that the money was needed, very
seriously needed.

"If he's innocent, he can prove it," argued Braddock stubbornly. "The
county pays the five hundred. It's nothing out of his pocket. Why the
devil shouldn't I get it?"

David had opened his lips two or three times to utter the words that
surged up from his anxious, despairing heart. A sense of guilt and
shame had checked them on each occasion. Whatever it was that he felt
impelled to say, his honest pride rebelled against the impulse.

Now he lifted his head resolutely, and addressed the proprietor, whose
stand appeared to be immovable.

"I will pay you the five hundred dollars," said David clearly.

Every eye was turned upon him, every tongue was stilled. The tumblers
who had started for the ring stopped in their tracks to gaze in open-
mouthed wonder at the straight, grotesque figure that faced Braddock.

The proprietor blinked unbelievingly. Then he gave vent to a short,
derisive laugh.

"You will, will you?"

David felt a hot wave of blood rush to his head. His offer had met
with the rebuke it deserved!

"I thought that if it was only the money, I could let you have it. I
didn't mean to try to buy you off," he explained hastily.

"Are you in earnest?" demanded Braddock, depositing the stake on the
ground, a curious glitter swimming across his eyes.

"About the money?"

"Certainly. Where are you going to get it?"

"I've got it with me," said David, feeling at his side. A look of
dismay spread over his face. It was quickly dispelled by the
recollection that his own clothes were lying in the men's dressing-
room. "It's in my vest."

No one thought to oppose him as he passed hastily under the flap. He
was back in a moment, carrying his rain-soaked waistcoat. With nervous
fingers he drew a heavy pin from the mouth of the inside pocket, and
extracted a long leather purse therefrom. It was tied up with a heavy
piece of string.

"Do you mean to tell me that you've got five hundred dollars in
there?" demanded Braddock incredulously.

David felt without seeing the look that went through the crowd. He
knew, by some strange mental process, that they were condemning him,
that they were drawing away from him. He was bewildered. Then suddenly
he understood. It came like a blow. Something rushed up into his
throat and choked him.

They took this money to be the profits of murder! The spoils of a
dreadful sin!

Speechless, he turned to Mrs. Braddock. There was no mistaking the
look of pain and distress in her dark eyes. There were doubt and
wonder there, too. It seemed to him that she shrank back a step;
although, as a matter of fact, she remained as motionless as a statue.
Christine was glowing upon him in grateful amazement, unutterable
relief in her gaze. To her, it meant only that he was rich and could
save himself. It did not occur to her that he had come by the riches
dishonestly, nor was she at once conscious of a feeling that her
father would do wrong to accept the tribute. It was not until later
that she felt the shock of revulsion.

"It is my money!" cried David, speaking to Mrs. Braddock. "Every cent
of it! I--I know what you are thinking. You think I stole it." His
eyes were flashing and his chin was held high now. "I'll kill any one
who says I steal. I'd sooner commit murder a thousand times than to
steal."

"How did you--come by all that money?" asked Mrs. Braddock, more than
half convinced by his fervor.

"That's what I'd like to know," added her husband. "Here! Lemme take
that pocket-book."

David jerked his hand loose and abruptly thrust the purse into the
hand of the astonished Mrs. Braddock.

"Look at it," he cried passionately. "Open the purse. It's still in
the sealed envelope, just as my father left it when he went off to the
war the second time--after he was wounded. He left it with my mother
for me. No one has ever opened the package. It was in my mother's
trunk until she died. She wouldn't put it in a bank. My uncle Frank
never knew that she had it; he doesn't know that I have it now. But it
is mine. My father gave it to me when I was six years old. See what it
says on the envelope. It's his own writing. 'For my son David. To be
used in the acquiring of an education if I should fall in this dear,
beloved cause, which now seems lost. God defend us all!' See! 'Arthur
Brodalbin Jenison.' My father's signature. Here is the seal of his
ring. It is my money."

Even Thomas Braddock was swayed, convinced by the eloquence of that
fierce appeal. He stared at the boy, his lips apart, his cigar hanging
limply from one corner of his mouth.

"By thunder!" he murmured, frankly surprised in himself. "I believe
the tale, hang me if I don't!"

But David was waiting only for the verdict of the woman. Mrs. Braddock
had not glanced at the envelope that she now clutched in her tense
fingers; her eyes were only for the eager, chalk-colored face of the
boy. Tears welled up in her warm eyes as he paused for breath.

"I believe you, too--yes, yes, my boy, we all believe you," she cried,
putting out her hand to him. He snatched it up and kissed it.

At that instant the ringmaster, white with rage, dashed in from the
big tent.

"Say, what's the matter with you loafers?"

The crowd of tumblers jumped out of the trance as if shot.

"The show's been held up for ten minutes! Get in there all of you!"
Here followed a violent explosion of appropriate profanity. "The
audience is gettin' wild. They'll be wantin' their money back unless
the performance goes on purty blamed--"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28