The Rose in the Ring

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

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Braddock reached the man's side in three steps. He delivered a
resounding slap on the ringmaster's cheek, almost knocking him down.
The tall hat went spinning away on the ground. Tears of pain and
terror flew to the fellow's eyes. He began to blubber.

"Don't you swear in the presence of my wife and daughter,--you!"
snarled Braddock, his own blasphemy ten times as venomous as the
other's.

"I--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Braddock," stammered the ringmaster in
great haste. If the gaping, respectful hundreds could see the despot
of the ring now!

Braddock's daughter uttered a low moan of horror and amazement. Her
heart swelled with pity for the poor wretch who dared not to defend
himself. Ruby Noakes felt the quiver that ran through the girl's body.
She promptly led her away from the spot.

"Come with me while I change," she said quickly.

Together they passed into the women's dressing-room. Christine's look
of mute surprise and shame rested on David's face as the flap dropped
behind her.

A minute later, the humiliated ringmaster, Briggs by name, was
cracking his whip in the middle of the ring, mighty lord of all he
surveyed, although, to his chagrin, there was no clown present to
receive the attention. In those good old days the circus carried but
one clown. He was the most overworked man in the ring, but he had the
satisfaction of knowing that he was the solitary idol of thousands.

Grinaldi did not accompany the tumblers to the ring. The lone elephant
that graced the show and the horses had been led out for the "lofty
somersault men" to vault over after the run down the "spring board";
that part of the dressing-tent in which Braddock stood was now clear
of humanity, except for his wife, the clown and David Jenison.

"Well, he knows I don't permit swearing in front of my daughter," said
Braddock, resenting the unspoken scorn in his wife's face. "Let's see
that envelope," he added roughly.

She held the coveted package behind her back, shaking her head
resolutely.

"How do I know there's five hundred in it?" he demanded.

"There's more than that," said David nervously.

"How do you know? It's never been opened."

Mrs. Braddock glanced at the writing on the face of the staunch,
yellow envelope. She started violently. In plain figures, in one
corner, she saw: "$3,000." She realized, with a flash of shame, that
it would be fatal to the boy's interests if her husband should come to
know of the actual value of the package. She opened her lips to utter
a word of caution to David, but he was too eager and too quick for
her.

"There's three thousand dollars in it," he said.

Braddock started. For the first time he removed the chewed cigar from
his lips, all the while fixedly regarding the youth with narrowing
eyes. He was thinking fast and hard. Three thousand dollars!

"You are not to break this seal, David Jenison," said Mrs. Braddock
firmly, her face very white. "Take it and go. It is your money, not
ours."

"Hold on there," objected her husband. His befuddled brain was solving
a certain problem to his own eminent satisfaction. "These officers
have got to be convinced that you are not with this show. I can't
afford to lie to 'em. There's only one way out of it. I can hire you
under another name and you can travel with us till we get out of this
part of the country. Five hundred is the reward. If I get it from you,
most of it can be paid back in wages. If I turn you over to them and
take their coin, I'd be doing the best thing for myself, but I'm
willing to run the risk of--"

"Thomas Braddock, you are _not_ to take this boy's money," cried his
wife. "It would be infamous!"

"Now, you keep out of this," he growled, fearful for his plans. "It's
one or the other, Mary. Either he antes up or they do."

"I will not allow it!"

David broke in, with a rare show of dignity. "I said I would pay it,
Mrs. Braddock. I can't break my word. If Mr. Braddock will send them
away, I will pay the amount they offer."

"Give him the envelope, Mary," commanded Braddock.

She looked about her as if seeking means of escape with the precious
package. Then, with a deep sigh, and a look of unutterable scorn for
the man, she handed the envelope to David.

He broke the seal.

"Maybe it's Confederate money," said Braddock, a sudden chill in his
heart. But it was not Confederate money. There was exposed to view a
neat package of United States treasury notes of large denomination,
brand-new and uncrumpled, just as they had come from the treasury
department.

Without hesitation, young Jenison counted off five hundred dollars.
Mrs. Braddock closed her eyes in pain as he laid the notes in her
husband's hand. Grinaldi turned away, suppressing the bitter
imprecation that rose to his lips.

"I'll tell those scoundrels that you haven't been near the show." He
did not count the money. He had counted it with greedy eyes as David
told off the bills in his nervous, clumsy fingers. "Now, you lay low.
Stick close to me. Don't let anybody see much of you till we're over
in Ohio. I'll guarantee to get you off safe. Don't you worry. Just lay
low. I'll find work for you to do. We're headed for Indiana and
Illinois. They'll never get you out there. By thunder! I've got an
idea, Joey, that girl of yours is right. You _do_ need a bit of
help. We'll make a clown of him. We'll have two clowns. How is that,
Mary?"

She did not reply. He looked away hastily.

"I couldn't be a clown," began David in consternation.

"Sure you can," interrupted the boss. "It's as easy as fallin' off a
log. Joey can tell you all the tricks. He's the best in the world,
Joey Grinaldi is. That's what I've got him for. We've got the best
show in the world, too. Barnum ain't in the same class with us.
Forepaugh and Van Amberg? They are second rate aggre--But, say, I'd
better go out and steer those fellows away." He started off, but
stopped suddenly as if struck by a serious doubt.

"Perhaps you'd better let me take the rest of that money and put it in
the safe in the ticket-wagon," he said encouragingly. "It's likely to
be nipped by some of these crooks that follow the show. 'T ain't safe
with you, let me tell you that."

"No!" cried his wife, her voice shrill with decision.

Braddock did not insist. He was too wise for that.

"Well, if it's stolen, don't blame me," he said. "Remember, I told you
so. I don't give a damn personally. It's your money, kid."

"I reckon I'll keep it," said David, suddenly acute. He began wrapping
the string around the broken package, which he had kept sacredly
inviolate for so long. "I'll stay with the show and do anything I can,
if you'll only help me to get away. I--I don't want to be taken back
there. Some day, I expect to go back, but not right now. I'm not
afraid. But I can't go back until I've found the man that
_knows_."

"There _is_ a man who--knows?" murmured Mrs. Braddock.

"Yes. I must find him. He--he doesn't want to be found. That's why it
is going to be so hard. But I will find him!" His eyes were flashing,
his teeth were set.

"So much the better," said Braddock. "You can throw 'em off the track
for awhile, then take your money and go to New York. You'll find him
there, all right. They all go there."

"He is a nigger," said David.

"Umph!" grunted Braddock. "That's bad. You mustn't expect any jury in
Virginia to believe a nigger in these days."

"Oh, yes, they will. They'll have to," declared David firmly.

"Say," said the proprietor, his voice sinking to tones of caution. He
addressed the three of them. "Better keep this quiet about the five
hundred. It won't help any of us if it gets out that you've been
bribing me, boy. I'll just say that I refused to take the wad. That
will go, too. Don't let _anybody_ know. Understand, Mary?" He looked
at her with lowering eyes.

"I will not tell Christine, Tom," she said evenly, meeting the look
with a gaze so steady that he bristled for a moment, but gave way
before it. He felt the scorn and laughed shortly in his attempt to
convince himself, at least, that he did not deserve it.

"And just to show you that I'm honest in this business," he went on
hurriedly, "I'm going to begin by paying you the fifty I still owe on
your salary, Joey. That's the kind of a man I am. I do what I say I'll
do. Here's your fifty, Joey."

"Not that kind of money for me, thank you," said Grinaldi, with a
scowl that brought his painted eyebrows together. He turned on his
heel and hurried into the dressing-room, unable to restrain the words
that would have cut the heart of the man's wife to shreds.

An attendant came in from the circus tent just as Christine Braddock
emerged from the dressing-room alone. David was stuffing the purse
inside the loose shirt that he wore. The girl hurried to her mother's
side.

"Are they going to--to take him?" she whispered fearfully.

David saw the sweet, clean lips tremble. Her eyes were wide and dry
with trouble. Somehow his heart swelled with a strange new emotion: he
could not have ascribed it to joy, or to self-pity, or to gratitude.
It was something new and pleasant and warm; a glow, a light, an
uplifting. This sweet, wonderfully pretty girl was his friend! She
believed in him.

"No, dear," replied Mrs. Braddock, lowering her eyes in sudden
humiliation.

The attendant was speaking. "Mr. Braddock, that feller out at the door
has got tired waitin'. He says he's comin' back yere to see you.
What'll I say to 'im? He's got a warrant an' he's got some of the town
marshal's men with 'im now."

"I'll go out and see him right away. The boy ain't with this show."

With a slow, meaning look at his wife, he turned to follow the man.
Over his shoulder he called to David:

"Go in there with Joey. He'll tell you where to hide if you have to.
Be quick about it."

He was gone. The tumblers began to pour in from the main tent.

Christine clutched her mother's arm in the agony of desperation.

"Did--did he take the money from--_him_?" she demanded tremulously.

Mrs. Braddock looked at David, an abject appeal in her eyes. He smiled
blandly and lied nobly, like a true Virginia gentleman.

"No, Miss Braddock. Instead of that, he has hired me to go with the
show."

"Oh, I am so glad," she cried. "I knew he would not take your money."

David swallowed hard; and then, fearing to speak again or to meet her
radiant eyes, he hastened after Grinaldi.

A moment later he was in the center of an excited, whispering group of
performers, in various conditions of attire, but singularly alike in
their state of mind. They were softly but impressively consigning
Thomas Braddock to the most remote corner in purgatory. They plied
David with questions. He reported the impatience of the officers, and
Braddock's decision to protect him for the time being.

"I saw them chaps out there, standin' by the menagerie doors," said
the contortionist. "Spotted 'em right away, I did."

A bareback rider looked in. His horse already had started for the
ring.

"Lay low!" he whispered. "One of the boys says they won't be put off
by Brad. They're going to search the tent with the town marshal."

Grinaldi, who had been deep in thought, suddenly slapped his knee and
uttered a cackle of satisfaction.

"I've got it! We'll pull the wool over their eyes, by Jinks! Follow
me, boy, and do just wot I tells you. I'm--I'm going to take you into
the ring with me. By Jupiter, they won't think of looking for you
there."

Attended by a chorus of approval, he shoved the stupefied David out
before him and hustled him across the space that lay between them and
the main top, all the while whispering eager instructions in his ear.

"You just follow behind me, keeping step all the time--about three
steps behind me. Don't look to right or left. Keep your eyes on the
middle of my back. Nobody knows you, so don't go into a funk, my lad.
It's life or death for you, mebby. I'll get a word to Briggs, the
ringmaster. He'll help you out, too. Just follow me around the ring,
three steps behind. Stop when I stop, walk when I do. Look silly,
that's all. I'll think of something else to tell you to do after we're
out there. And _we'll stay out there till the show's over_."

Trembling in every joint, David paused at the entrance. Mrs. Braddock
came running up from behind.

"I've just heard," she whispered. "Do as Joey tells you. Don't be
afraid."

"I'll try," chattered David, pathetic figure of Momus.

"Wait," she whispered, as much to Joey Grinaldi as to the novice.
"David, will you trust me to take care of your money until to-morrow?"

Without a word he slipped his hand into his shirt front and produced
the flat purse. He handed it to her.

"Good!" exclaimed Joey Grinaldi.

The next instant David Jenison, aristocrat, was trudging dizzily
toward the sawdust ring, his heart beating like mad, his knees
trembling.

Thomas Braddock, detaining the officers on the opposite side of the
ring, saw the strange figure and for a moment was near to losing his
composure. Then he grasped the situation and exulted. He boldly
escorted Blake and the town authorities to the dressing-tent, where he
assisted in the search and the questioning.

Before the expiration of half an hour's time every man, woman and
child connected with Van Slye's Great and Only Mammoth Shows knew that
David Jenison, the murderer, was among them and that he was to be
protected. The word went slyly, by whisper, from car to ear, down to
the lowliest canvasman. It spread to the throng of crooks, pickpockets
and fakirs that followed the show; it reached to the freaks in the
sideshow. And not one among them all would have betrayed him by sign
or deed. They stuck together like leeches, these good and bad nomads,
and they asked few questions. And so it was that David Jenison made
his first appearance as a clown in the sawdust ring.

CHAPTER IV

A STKANGER APPEAES ON THE SCENE

An hour after the conclusion of the performance David was on the road
once more; not, as before, afoot and weary, but safely ensconced in
one of the huge, lumbering "tableau" wagons used for the
transportation of canvas and perishable properties. The boss
canvasman, not the hardened brute that he appeared to be, had stored
him away in the damp interior of the ponderous wagon, first providing
him with dry blankets on which he could sleep with some security and
no comfort. There was little space between his mountainous, shifting
bed and the roof of the van; and there would have been no air had not
the driver of the four-horse team obligingly opened a narrow window
beneath the seat on which he rode.

With considerable caution the fugitive had been smuggled into the van,
under the very noses of his pursuers, so to speak. Somewhat dazed and
half sick with anxiety, he obeyed every instruction of his friend the
clown.

Blake and his men had watched the tearing down of the tent, the
loading of the entire concern and its subsequent departure down the
night-shrouded country pike. That Blake was not fully satisfied with
the story told to him by Thomas Braddock, and somewhat doubtfully
supported by his own investigations, is proved by the fact that he
decided to follow the show until he was positively assured that his
quarry was not being shielded by the circus people. With no little
astuteness he and his companion resolved that they could accomplish
nothing by working openly: their only chance lay in the ability to
keep the circus people from knowing that they were following them. In
this they counted without their hosts. At no time during the next
three days were their movements unknown to the clever band of rascals
who followed the show for evil purposes, and who, with perfect
integrity, kept the proprietor advised of every step taken and of
every disguise affected. Blake was not the first nor the last
confident officer of the law to more than meet his match in the effort
to outwit an old-time road circus. He was butting his head against a
stone wall. Consummate rascality on one hand, unwavering loyalty on
the other: he had but little chance against the combination. The
lowliest peanut-vender was laughing in his sleeve at the sleuth; and
the lowliest peanut-vender kept the vigil as resolutely as any one
else.

Despite his uncomfortable position and the natural thrills of
excitement and peril, David was sound asleep before the wagon was
fairly under way. Complete exhaustion surmounted all other conditions.
He was vaguely conscious of the sombre rumbling of the huge wagon and
of the regular clicking of the wheel-hubs, so characteristic of the
circus caravan and so dear to the heart of every boy. His bones ached,
his stomach was crying out for food, and his body was chilled; but
none of these could withstand the assault of slumber. He would have
slept if Blake's hand had been on his shoulder.

Out into the country rolled the big wagon, at two o'clock in the
morning, following as closely as possible the flickering rear lantern
of the vehicle ahead. The rain had ceased falling, but there was a
mist in the air, blown from the trees that lined the road. Those of
the circus men who were compelled to ride outside the wagons were
clothed in their rubber coats; their more fortunate companions slept
under cover on the pole wagons, on top of the seat wagons, or in
stretchers swung beneath the property wagons or cages. Others, still
more fortunate, slept in property or trunk vans, or in the band
chariots. The leading performers and officials, including all of the
women, traveled by train. The gamblers, pickpockets and fakirs got
along as best they could from town to town by stealing passage on the
freight trains. Times there were, however, when the entire aggregation
traveled with the caravan. On such occasions the luckless roustabout
gave up his precarious bedroom to the "ladies" and sat all night in
dubious solitude atop of his lodging house. These emergencies were
infrequent: they arose only when railroad facilities were not to be
had, or--alas! when the exchequer was depleted.

On this murky night the performers remained over in S--, to take an
early train for the next stand. The railroad show was then an untried
experiment. Barnum and Coup and others were planning the great
innovation, but there was a grave question as to its practicability.
Later on Coup made the venture, transporting his show by rail. Such
men as Yankee Robinson, Cole and even P. T. Barnum traveled by wagon
road until that brave attempt was made. The railroad was soon to solve
the "bad roads" problem for all of them. Short jumps would no longer
be necessary; profitable cities could be substituted for the small
towns that every circus had to make on account of the distances and
the laborious mode of transportation. Still, if you were to chat
awhile with an old-time showman, you would soon discover that the
"road circus" of early days was the real one, and that the
scientifically handled concern of to-day is as utterly devoid of the
true flavor as the night is without sunshine.

Three times during the long, dark hours before dawn the chariot was
stalled in the mud of the mountain road; as many times it was moved by
the united efforts of five or six teams and the combined blasphemy of
a dozen drivers. Through all of this, David slept as if drugged.
Daybreak came; the ghostly wagon train slipped from darkness into the
misty light of a new "day." Cocks were crowing afar and near, and
birds were chirping in the bushes at the roadside. Out of the sombre,
crinkling night rolled the red, and white, and golden juggernauts,
gradually taking shape in the gray dawn, crawling with sardonic
indifference past toll-gate and farmhouse, creaking and groaning and
snapping in weird, uncanny chorus.

Early risers were up to see the "circus" pass. It was something of an
epoch in the lives of those who dwelt afar from the madding crowd.

The elephant, the cages of wild beasts, the horses, the towering
chariots, the amazing pole wagons--all slipped down the road and over
the hill, strange, unusual objects that came but once a year and
seemed to leave the countryside smaller and more narrow than it had
been before.

Hunched-up drivers, sleepily handling a half-dozen reins, looked
neither to right nor left, but swore mechanically for the benefit of
the tired horses, and without compunction in the presence of roadside
spectators, male or female. Wet, sour, unfriendly minions were they,
but they sent up no lamentations; their lives may have been hard and
unpromising, but lightly in their hearts swam the blissful conviction
that they were superior to the envious yokels who gaped at them from
fence corners and barnyards since the first dreary streak of dawn
crept into the skies. A shadowy, ungainly, mysterious caravan of
secrets, cherished but unblest, it straggled through the dawn,
resolute in its promise of splendor at midday. Wild beasts were abroad
in the land, and mighty serpents, too; but they slept and were scorned
by the men who slumbered above or below them.

The country people looked on and wondered, and shuddered at the
thought of the terrific creatures at their very door-yards. Then they
hitched up their teams and flocked to town in the wake of the peril,
there to marvel and delight in the very things that had awed them in
their own province. And all through the land people locked their doors
and put away their treasures. The circus had come to town!

It was eight o'clock before David was routed from his strange bed by
the boss canvasman. They were in a new town. He rubbed his eyes as he
stood beside the wagon wheel and looked upon the amazing scene before
him. Dozens of huge wagons were spread over the show-grounds; a
multitude of men and horses swarmed in and about them; curious crowds
of early risers stood afar off and gazed. The rhythmic pounding of
iron stakes, driven down by four precise sledge-men came to his ears
from all sides; the jangling of trace-chains; the creaking of wagons
and the whine of pulleys. Here, there, everywhere were signs of a
mighty activity, systematic in its every phase. Men toiled and swore
and were cursed with the regularity of a single well-balanced mind.
Already the horse tent and the cook tent were up. A blacksmith shop
was clanging out its busy greetings.

For a moment David forgot his own predicament. He stared in utter
bewilderment, vastly interested in the great transformation. Under his
very eyes a city of white was about to spring into existence.

Some one touched his shoulder, not ungently. He started in sudden
alarm. A rough-looking fellow in a soiled red undershirt was standing
at his elbow.

"The boss says you'd better come to the cook-top and get somethin' to
eat, young feller." That was all. He jerked his head in the direction
of the long, low tent in the corner of the lot and started off. David
followed, sharply conscious of a revived hunger.

A score of men were seated at the long tables, gulping hot coffee and
bolting their food. From the kitchen beyond came the crackling of
fats, the odor of frying things and the aroma of strong coffee. The
clatter of tin pans and cups, the rattle of pewter knives and forks
and the commands of hungry men to the surly lads who served them
assailed the refined ears of the young Virginian as he stopped
irresolutely at the mouth of the tent.

"Set down here, kid," said his escort, pointing to a place on the
plank, stepping over it himself to take his seat at the board. If the
stranger expected a greeting or comment on his appearance among these
men, he was happily disappointed. They looked at him with sullen,
indifferent eyes and went on bolting the breakfast. Some of them were
half naked; all of them were dirty and reeking with perspiration.
There was no effort at general conversation. David had the feeling
that they hated each other and were ready to hurl things at the
slightest provocation, such as the passing of the time of day.

A half-grown boy placed a huge tin cup full of steaming coffee on to
the table and said in a husky, consumptive voice: "'Ere's your slop,
kid."

Another boy jammed a panful of bacon and corn-bread across his
shoulder and advised him to hurry up and "grab it, you."

David ate in shocked silence. The man at his left laughed at his
genteel use of the knife and fork and the dainty handling of the
bacon. Sugar and cream were not served. He was hungry. The coarse but
well-cooked food pleased his palate more than he could have believed.
He ate his fill of the "chuck," as his neighbor called it. Then he was
hurried back to the wagon in which he had slept. It was empty now,
cavernous and reeking with the odor of damp canvas lately removed.

"Git in there, kid," said his guide briskly. "You gotta keep under
cover fer a spell. Stay in there 'tel Joey Grinaldi says the word.
Them's Braddock's orders."

David hesitated a moment. "Where is Mrs. Braddock?" he asked.

"Train ain't in yet. You don't suppose the highlights travel this
away, do you? Well, nix, I should say not. Say, are you goin' to learn
the business? If you are, I got some fishworm oil that's jest the
thing to limber up yer joints. In two weeks, if you rub this oil of
mine all over you reg'lar, you c'n bend double three ways." It was an
old game. David stared but shook his head.

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