The Rose in the Ring

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"I'm not going to be a performer," he said, with a wry smile at the
thought of "fishworm oil."

"Well, that bein' the case, have you got any chewin' about yer
clothes?"

"Chewing?" murmured David.

"Fine cut er plug, I don't care."

"I don't chew tobacco," said David stiffly.

"Oh," said the man in amaze. "A reg'lar little Robert Reed, eh? Well,
hop inside there. I gotta shut the door. Don't you cry if it's dark,
kid."

David crawled into the chariot and the door was closed after him. A
thin stream of daylight came down through the narrow slit beneath the
driver's seat. For a while he sat with his back against the wall,
pondering the situation. Then, almost without warning, sleep returned
to claim his senses. He slipped over on his side, mechanically
stretched out his legs and forgot his doubts and troubles.

He was aroused by the jostling and bouncing of the huge, empty wagon.
With a start of alarm he leaped to his feet, striking his head against
the roof of his abiding place, and hurried to the end of the wagon to
peer out through the slit. Bands were playing, whips were cracking and
children were shrieking joyously. It was a long time before he grasped
the situation. The "Grand free street parade" was in progress; he was
riding, like a caged beast, through the principal streets of the town!

From the security of his position he could look out upon the throng
that lined the sidewalks, without danger of being seen in return.
After the first great wave of mortification and shame, he was able to
consider his situation to be quite as amusing as it was fortunate. He
found himself laughing at the country people and their scarcely more
sophisticated city brethren with something of the worldly scorn that
dominated the "profession." Even the horses that drew the "Gorgeous
chariots of gold" eyed the gaping crowds with profound pity. There is
nothing in all this world so incredibly haughty as a circus, from
tent-peg to proprietor. Perhaps you who read this have felt your own
insignificance while gazing at an imperial tent-peg that happened to
lie in your path as you wandered about the grounds; or you have
certainly felt mean and lowly in the presence of a program-peddler,
and positively servile in contact with a boss canvasman. It is in the
air; and the very air is the property of the circus.

In time the twenty wagons, with their double and quadruple teams,
attended fore and aft by cavaliers and court-ladies, _papier mache_
grotesques, trick mules and "calico ponies," came once more to the
grounds, still pursued by the excited crowd. Far ahead of the parade
a loud-voiced "barker" rode, warning all people to look out for
their horses: "The elephant is coming!" Just to show their utter lack
of poise, at least fifty farm nags, in super-equine terror, leaped out
of their harness and into their own vehicles when "Goliath," the
decrepit old elephant, shuffled by, too tired to lift his proboscis,
thus exemplifying the vast distinction between themselves and the
circus horses which only noticed Goliath when he got in the way.

David had a long wait in the dark, stuffy chariot. Finally the door
was opened and Braddock looked in. Directly behind the proprietor was
the dirty sidewall of a tent. David blinked afresh in the light of
day,--although, alas, the sun was not shining.

"Hello," said Braddock shortly. His cigar bobbed up and down with the
movement of his lips. "Come out. You can duck under the canvas right
here. Lift it up, Bill."

The boy slid from the chariot to the ground and made haste to pass
under the wall which had been raised by a canvasman. Braddock followed
him into the huge tent. A small army of men were erecting the seats
for the afternoon performance. David realized that he was in the "main
top."

A stocky, bow-legged man, his hands in his pockets and a short briar
pipe in his lips, advanced to meet them.

"Well, 'ow are you?" asked this merry-eyed stranger, his face going
into a hundred wrinkles by way of friendly greeting. "Oh, I say,
David, don't you know your old pal and playmate? Hi, there! 'Ere we
are!"

David stared in astonishment. It was Grinaldi, the clown, without his
make-up or his wig! Never was there such a change in human face.

They clasped hands, David laughing outright in the ecstasy of relief
at finding this whilom friend.

"Keep shady, you," said Braddock, finding no pleasure in the boy's
change of manner. "Those pinchers came over on the train with us. And
say, we might just as well settle what's to be done about you. I've
thought it over seriously. I'm taking a risk in havin' you around,
understand that. But if you want a job with the show, I'll give you
one. Tell you what I'll do: I'll give you two and a half a week and
your board. That's good pay for a beginner. You to do clown work and--
"

"But I can't be a clown--" began David.

"Well, what do you want?" roared Braddock, apparently aghast. "Do you
expect to ride around in carriages and live on goose liver? Say, where
do you think you are? In society? Well, you can get that out of your
head, lemme tell you that, you--"

"'Ere, 'ere, Brad," put in Joey sharply, noting the look in the boy's
pale face. "Don't talk like that. 'E's not used to that sort o' gaff.
Let me talk it over with 'im."

"Well, the offer don't stand long. He either takes it or he don't. If
he don't, out he goes. Say, you, where's all that money you had last
night? I'm not going to have anybody carryin' a wad around like that
and gettin' it nabbed and then settin' up a roar against the show,
gettin' us pulled or something worse. I insist on taking care of that
stuff, for my own protection, just so long as you stay with this
show."

David looked helplessly to Joey Noakes for succor.

"I'll talk that over with 'im, too, Brad," announced the clown
briefly.

"And let me add something else," resumed Braddock, with an unnecessary
oath. "I'm not going to have you hangin' around my wife and daughter
if you _do_ stay with us. Remember one thing: you're a cheap clown, and
you've got to know your place. My daughter's a decent girl. She's got
good blood in her, understand that. _Damn' fine blood._ I'm not going
to have her associatin' with a--"

"'Old on, Brad!" interrupted the old clown, glaring at him. "Cheese
it, will you? I won't stand for it. You got five 'undred from this boy
and you ought to treat 'im decent. He's got just as good blood in 'im
as Christie's got--and better, blow me, because it's probably good on
both sides--which is more than you can say for her, poor girl. Thank
God, she don't show that she's got your blood in 'er veins."

"Here! Do you mean to insinuate that she's not _mine_?" gasped
Braddock, suddenly a-tremble. Much as he trusted to the virtue of his
wife, he was never able to comprehend the miracle that gave him
Christine for a daughter. There was no trace of him to be seen in her.

"You know better than that," said the clown coldly.

"Well," said Braddock, nervously shifting his cigar and lowering his
gaze. If he had intended to say more, he changed his mind and walked
off toward the center of the tent where men were throwing up a
circular bank about the ring.

"He's a drunken dog," said the clown, glaring after him. "She's the
finest woman in the world. And to think of 'er bein' the wife of that
bounder."

David had been thinking of it and puzzling his tired brain for hours.

"How did she happen to marry--"

"No time for that now," said Grinaldi briskly. "Mebby I'll tell you
about her some other time, not now. You'd better keep away from her
and Christine for a couple of days. Brad will forget it in no time,
'specially if he thinks he can scrape some more o' that money out of
you. Oh, he's a slick one. He's got 'is eye on that wad. Now, let's
get down to business. I advise you to stick to the show for awhile--at
least until we're a good ways off. Take up 'is offer. It ain't bad.
You can 'ave chuck with me and Ruby. I'll look out for that. You just
do wot I tell you, and you'll be a clown. Not a real one, but good
enough to earn two and a 'arf. I'm not doin' this for you, my boy,
because I think I need an assistant. Joey Grinaldi has been a fav'rit
clown in two hemispheres for forty years. Some day I'll show you the
medals I got in London and Paris and--but never mind now. You start
right in this afternoon, doin' just wot I tells you. You'll be all
right and them blokes as is 'untin' for you won't be able to twig you
from sole leather. Wot say?"

"I'll do just as you say," said David simply.

"Good! Now come over 'ere by the band section and I'll tell how we'll
work it out. Of course, we'll improve it every day. All you needs is
confidence. We 'ave dinner at twelve-thirty in the performer's end of
the cook-tent. It's all right there. I'll fetch yours into the
dressin'-tent for you, so's you won't be seen. There's my daughter
over there. Ain't she a stunner? Say, she's a gal as is a gal. Best
trapeze worker in the business, if I do say it myself. And 'er mother
was the best columbine that ever appeared in a Drury Lane pantomime,
poor lass." He abruptly passed his hand across his eyes.

"The columbine?" said David, his eyes beaming. "I remember the
columbine and the harlequin and the pantaloon in Drury Lane one boxing
week when I was in London with my grandfather. Was a columbine really
your wife?"

"She was," said Joey proudly. "But," he added hastily, "it ain't
likely you saw _her_. She died when Ruby was born."

That afternoon David appeared in the ring, once more clad in the
striped suit and besmeared with bismuth. He was even more frightened
than at his first appearance, when he was driven by another fear. Ruby
Noakes, black-eyed and dashing, winked at him saucily from her perch
on the high trapeze, having caught his eye. When she slid down the
stout lacing and wafted kisses to the multitude, he was near enough to
catch her merry undertone:

"You have no idea how funny you are," she said, passing him by with a
skip.

"There's your friend, the detective," remarked Joey, later on, jerking
his head in the direction of the animal tent. Sure enough, Blake was
standing at the end of the tier of seats, talking with Thomas
Braddock. "But he doesn't reckernize you, David, so don't turn any
paler than you are already."

The new clown, wretchedly unsuited to his new occupation, managed to
get through the performance without mishap. He followed instructions
blindly but faithfully, barking his shins twice and tripping over an
equestrian banner once with almost direful results. The audience
laughed with glee, and Grinaldi congratulated him on the hit he was
making.

"Hit?" moaned David, rubbing his elbow in earnest. "Good heaven! Was
that a hit?"

"My boy, they'd laugh if you were to break your neck," said the clown
gravely.

Christine Braddock came on for her turn early in the program. David
was told that her mother, who persistently though vainly opposed a
ring career for her loved one, compromised with Braddock on the
condition that she was to appear early in the performance.

"Brad was a circus rider in his younger days, before he took to
drink," explained Joey, as he and David sat together at the edge of
the ring while Briggs, the ringmaster, announced the approach of "the
world-famed child marvel, Little Starbright, and Monseer Dupont, in
the great-est eques-trian feats evah attempted by mor-tal crea-tuah!"

"When Christie was a wee bit of a thing he took 'er into the ring with
'im. She sat on 'is shoulder and the crowd thought it wonnerful. Arter
that he took 'er in reg'lar. Mrs. Braddock almos' lost 'er mind, but
Brad coaxed 'er into seein' it 'is way. It was before he took to
drinking steady. That gal 'as no more business being a circus rider
than nothink. But you can't make Brad see it that way now. He says
she's got to earn 'er bread and keep, and that she's no better than
wot 'er father is. If circus riding is good enough for 'im, it's good
enough for 'is offspring, says he. Her mother just had to give in to
'im. Well, when she was about ten, Brad took to drinking. That was
before he bought old Van Slye out. One day he fell off the 'oss with
'er and broke 'is arm. Fort'nitly, the younker wasn't 'urt. So, then
he had sense enough to listen to 'is wife. He quit riding 'isself, but
he put big Tom Sacks into the act in 'is place. Tom is the present
Mons. Dupont--a fine feller and as steady as can be. He's powerful
strong and a fairish sort of rider--but nothink like wot Brad used to
be in his best day. Christine's getting a bit biggish for 'im to
'andle; I daresay this is the last season for their double act. But
for four seasons she's been doing amazing fine work with old Tom. She
seems to like it, and she's as daring as the very old Nick. Don't know
wot fear is, I might say. She's so fairy-like and so purty that the
crowds just naterally love 'er to death. She's going to be a wonnerful
'ansome woman, David, that gal is, take it from me. 'Ere she is!"

"She's like a rose," said David, following the slim, scarlet creature
with his eyes.

"And a rose she is, my heartie," said Joey. "When I was a lad at 'ome,
there was a chap named Thackeray writing wonderful clever tales. I
remembers one of them particular. It was called 'The Rose and the
Ring.' I never see Christine in them togs without thinking of the name
of that book--The Rose and the Ring, d' ye get my idea? Mr. Thackeray
was a well-known writer when I was a boy. That was thirty year ago. I
daresay he's dead and forgotten now."

David smiled. "He'll never die, Mr. Noakes. He's more alive now than
ever. 'The Rose and the Ring.' Why not 'The Rose _in_ the Ring'?"

"Hi! Hi!" cried Joey approvingly, "Right you are."

During the entire act of Little Starbright and Monsieur Dupont David
gazed entranced. He followed Grinaldi, but his eyes were not always
leveled against the spotted back of his mentor; they were for the
lithe, graceful figure in scarlet riding atop of the sturdy Tom Sacks,
sometimes standing upright on his shoulders, again leaning far out
from his thigh, or even more daringly dancing on his broad back while
he squatted on the pad. First on one foot, then the other, then clear
of his back with both of them twinkling in merry time to the quickstep
of the band, her dark hair fluttering from beneath the saucy cap, her
hands waving and her eyes sparkling. Kisses went wafting to every
section of the tent, and with them smiles such as David had never seen
before.

He was standing near when she leaped from the horse's back and skipped
to the center of the ring to blow her final kisses to the multitude.
It occurred to him all at once that he was staring at this wonderfully
graceful, fairy-like little creature with the eyes of a delighted
spectator and not as a clown. He guiltily looked for a reprimand from
Grinaldi. To his surprise and disappointment she passed him by without
a sign of recognition, slipping her tiny feet into the ground shoes
and shuffling off to the dressing-tent with the stride peculiar to
ring performers. For a moment he felt as if she had struck him in the
face, so quick was his pride to resent the slight.

"This ain't a parlor, my lad," said Joey, shrewdly analyzing the
feelings of his _protege_. "You mustn't expect the ladies to stop
and chat with you in the ring. It ain't reg'lar. She didn't mean
nothink--nothink at all, bless 'er 'eart."

When the performance was over, David was whisked into the men's
section of the dressing-tent and told to stay there until further
orders. He changed his clothes and "washed up," listening meanwhile to
the congratulations and the good-natured chaffing of the performers
who were there with him. Despite their ribald scoffing, he knew they
were his friends: there was something about these careless,
inconsequent knights of the sawdust ring, in spangles or out, that
warmed the cockles of his sore, despairing heart.

He came before long to laugh with them and to take their jibes as they
were meant--good-naturedly. Joey Grinaldi beamed with congratulation.
He laid himself out to make the going easy for his "gentleman
pardner," appreciating the vast distinction that lay between these men
and the kind David had known all of his life. And David saw that he
was trying to make it easy for him. His heart swelled with a strange
gratitude; he unbent suddenly and met the rough kindnesses more than
half way. They were not the kind of men he was used to,--they were not
gentlemen; but they stood ready to be his friends, and something told
him that they would ring true to the very end if he met them half way.

They had their own undeviating regard for what they called honor:
honor meant loyalty and fairness, nothing more. Simple, genial,
unpolished braggarts were they, but their word was as good or better
than a gentleman's bond. David was soon to fall under the spell of
this bland comradeship: he was to see these men in a light so bright
that it blinded him to their vulgarities, their quaint blasphemy and
their prodigious lack of veracity as applied to personal achievements.
He was to find in them a splendid chivalry, almost unbelievable at
first: their regard for the women in the troupe was in the nature of a
revelation to him, who came from the land of gallantry itself.

"Say, kid," said Signor Anaconda, "the human snake," suddenly adopting
a serious mien,--which did not become him,--"you gotta change your
name. What'll we call him, fellers? Now, le' 's give him a reg'lar
story-book name. Prince Something-or-other. What say to--"

"That's all settled," said old Joey, his eyes full of soap and water
and squeezed so tightly together that they looked like wrinkles.
"Christine Braddock named 'im this morning. I forgot to tell you,
David. Your name is Snipe--Jack Snipe."

David flushed. "Why did she call me _that_?" he asked.

"Because you were lonesome, and there is nothink so lonesome as a
jack-snipe. Leastwise, that's wot she says. She asked me if I'd ever
seen a jack-snipe on a wet, dreary day, a-standing on a sandbar, all
alone like and forlorn. She said she always felt so sorry for the poor
little cuss--no, she didn't say cuss either. What was it she said,
Casey? You was there."

"She said 'thing,'" said Casey briefly.

"Right, my lad. Thing it was. Well, wot she says goes in this 'ere
aggergation, so from now on you are just Jack Snipe." He lowered his
voice. "There won't nobody call you David or Jenison after this, my
boy. It's too dangerous."

David was thoughtful. "Do you mean to say," he said, after a pause,
"that every person in this show knows who I really am?"

"You bet your life they do," said Casey.

"And what I am wanted for?"

"Certain. Wot's that got to do with it?"

"Do they think I'm--I'm guilty?"

"Well, I reckon most of 'em do," said the contortionist blandly.
"But," he added in some haste, "they don't give a dang for a little
thing like that."

"But," said David fiercely, "I don't want them to think I am guilty. I
can't bear to think that every one is looking upon me as a criminal.
Why--why, what must the ladies of the--of the show think of me? I--I--
"

Joey Grinaldi put his hand on the young fellow's shoulder: "They don't
think you done it, Jack--not one of 'em. I heard 'em speaking of you
last night as if you was a reg'lar angel. For the fust time since I've
knowed all of them women, they are all agreed on one thing: they
_all_ agree that you are the sweetest kid they've ever seen and
that you never done anything naughty in your life. Come on, now. Mrs.
Braddock wants to see you a minute."

David's heart leaped. He followed the old clown into the open tent,
his eyes bright with the eagerness to look once more upon the strange,
lovely friend of the night before,--his true guardian angel.

She was standing near the entrance to the main tent, talking with half
a dozen of the women performers, all of whom were in street attire. As
soon as she saw him she smiled and motioned for him to join the group.
He was not slow to obey the summons. To the amazement of the
interested group the young Virginian lifted her hand to his lips. Mrs.
Braddock flushed warmly, an exquisite smile of appreciation leaping to
her rather sombre eyes.

"You must let me introduce you to these ladies," she said, after a few
low words of greeting. "This is Jack Snipe, our new clown," she said,
naming for his benefit the riders, the ropewalker, the snake-charmer
and the boneless wonder. David was profoundly polite, almost old-
fashioned in his acknowledgment of the introduction. The women were
suddenly conscious of a new-found glory in themselves. The "boneless
wonder" talked of his elegance for weeks, and always without resorting
to slang.

"Where is Miss Christine?" asked David, turning to Mrs. Braddock with
a shy smile.

She did not answer at once. When she did, it was with palpable
uneasiness. "My daughter usually takes her sleep at this time, Dav--
Jack."

David's cheek slowly turned red. He remembered what Braddock had said
to him.

"You are all very good to me," he murmured, for want of anything
better to say. His sensitive heart was thumping quickly, driven by
humiliation. She looked steadily into his eyes without speaking and
then walked away from the group, directing him to follow. They sat
down upon the tumbler's pad, just where they had been seated the night
before.

"My husband is hard sometimes, David," she said gently. "It will last
for a few days, that is all. We must not aggravate him now. In a
little while he will forget that he has--has said certain things.
Then, I hope that you and Christine will be good friends. I--I want
her to know you well, David. I want her to be with--with some one who
is different from the people here. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes," said David, suddenly enlightened. "I know what you mean. I
shall be very happy, too."

"Ah, how gently you did that," she cried, a wistful gleam in her dark
eyes. "How the blood tells its story! Yes, David, I want her to know
you; I want her to--to be with her own kind." Her face flamed with
sudden fervor; he was struck by the almost pathetic eagerness that
leaped into her eyes, transfiguring them. "I have tried so hard to
give her something of what I had myself, David, when I was a girl.
Everything depends on the next year or two. She is thinking for
herself now. It is the turning-point. You must know, David, you must
see that she is not like the others here."

"She is like you," he said, very simply.

The blood surged once more to her cheeks; her lips parted with the
quick breath of joy and gratitude. She thanked him very gently, very
gravely. No word was uttered against the man who was Christine's
father.

"I prayed last night, David, that you might stay with the show until
the end of this season. I am determined that it shall be her last, no
matter what it may cost both of us."

"Cost both of us," thought he, and at once knew what she meant. The
cost, if necessary, would be the husband and father.

Then she told him, in hurried sentences, that she had watched him in
the ring, and that her daughter had come back to her with glowing
reports of his composure and cleverness. David's pride, at least, was
appeased. She _had_ looked at him, after all, and was interested.

He was struck by the sudden, curious change that came over Mrs.
Braddock's face. She was looking past him toward the entrance to the
circus tent. All the color, all the eagerness left her face in a
flash; the warmth died out in her big brown eyes and in its stead
appeared a look of positive dread and uneasiness--it might have been
repugnance. Her lips grew tense, and he could see that she started
ever so slightly, as if in surprise.

He glanced over his shoulder. Thomas Braddock was approaching, his
face red with anger and drink. At his side walked a tall, exceedingly
well-dressed stranger, who carried his silk hat in his hand and was
smiling blandly upon the proprietor's wife.

"Oh, that man again!" he heard her say between her stiff lips. There
was a world of loathing in the half-whispered sentence, which was so
low that it barely reached his ears. He looked up quickly, and saw her
face go darkly red again--the red of humiliation, he could have sworn.

"Go!" she said to David, quietly but firmly.

He turned away, vaguely conscious that the newcomer was more to be
feared than Thomas Braddock himself. Instinctively the boy experienced
a singular, instantaneous aversion to this immaculate intruder.

"Get out!" he heard Braddock roar after him as he paused at the
partition to look once more at the stranger.

The man was bowing low before the straight, motionless figure of Mary
Braddock. Her chin was high in the air, and David could almost have
sworn that he saw her nostrils dilate.

From a place beyond the flap in the partition he surveyed this
disturbing visitor.

CHAPTER V

SOMETHING ABOUT THE BRADDOCKS

He was not long in supplying a reason for the sudden antipathy he felt
toward this man whom he had never seen before.

A somewhat prolonged study from the security of the dressing-room had
the effect of settling the aversion more firmly in his mind. In the
first place, the man's face was a peculiarly evil one. His dark eyes
were set quite close together under a bulging forehead. His eyebrows
were straw-colored, and so thin that they were almost invisible. A
broad, flat nose, with spreading nostrils, not unlike that of an
Ethiopian, gave to the upper part of his face a sheep-like expression.
His lower lip, thick and blue and loose, protruded with flabby
insistence beyond its mate, which was short and straight. The chin
receded, but was of surprising length and breadth. His ears sat very
low on his head and were ludicrously small. Above them rose a massive
dome, covered with thick, well-brushed hair of a yellowish hue, parted
exactly in the middle. His cheeks were white and flaccid, and there
was a fullness in front of the jaw-point that suggested approaching
bagginess. He smiled with his lips closed, and broadly at that. The
picture was even less alluring than when his face was in repose. In
the subdued, gray light of the tent his complexion was singularly
colorless; David thought of a very sick man he had once seen.

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