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Based on a vintage circus poster
Roy Glashan's Library
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Based on a vintage circus poster
The Elks Magazine, February 1926,
with first part of "Prosper Goes to the Circus"
THE Duke of Devizes, that whimsical young "eccentric" with whom we shall all feel so much more comfortable if we give him at once his favorite pseudonym "Prosper Fair"—a self-made selection from among his many Christian names—turned from the window of his study at Derehurst Castle, smiled to himself, nodded a little nod, lit a cigarette, and spoke to a small, shabby, black-and-white semi-terrier wearing only three good legs, that was King on a rug close by. "Plutus!"
The dog arose rapidly and slung himself three-leggedly at his proprietor.
"Are you for the road again? Shall we arise, gird ourselves up, issue forth and see life again?"
The semi-terrier agitated his semi-tail wagsomely.
"Ah—I perceive, my old, that you too are slightly out of place in this palace that the fates have decreed shall be our home." Prosper laughed.
"Tramps we are in our hearts, hound," he said. "And I think, therefore, that we may as well act as such—more or less—for a little while. Let us consult with that little ass, Patience."
He touched a bell and a maid appeared at the door—a very trim, very dainty and extremely pretty parlor maid. It may be explained that the democratic Duke of Devizes was not a great admirer of that pomp and circumstance to which butlers and footmen are so often regarded as an indispensable accessory. There were, of course, large herds of these gentlemen somewhere about Derehurst, but, save on the more solemn occasions, their ministrations were not called for to any extent by the Duke. With the exception of his valet, an ex-jockey and an old favorite of Prosper's father, Prosper saw to it that he was attended by neat-handed Phyllises. This had been a source of some concern to his mother, until Prosper had explained.
"Every man is my brother, and I like him, mother. More, I frequently admire him," he had said. "But he is not so soothing as my sisters. Why should I be waited upon by a stout person, probably a little bald, who breathes heavily, has flat feet, large red hands, and, sometimes, has a slightly glazed expression in his eyes? Why, mother, should I suffer such things when, for rather less money, I can be administered to by pretty little ladies—gentle, kind, light-footed, with neat hands and fingers and soft voices. They don't breathe heavily at me. and their voices are not husky. And I like them. It is perfectly natural, isn't it? Think of it—large, winey butlers and big footmen, beer-drinkers in secret, versus neat little ladies! Come, mother—to quote the raucous financial experts of the Rings, it is quite obviously a hundred to eight against the butlers and footmen!"
The Duchess let it go at that.
Hence the trim maid that answered the Duke's ring—a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed vision in black and snowy white. Prosper smiled.
"Do you think you could persuade Mr. Binns to employ some one to find Patience and send her to me, Rosalie?" he asked.
Mr. Binns was the "main" butler.
"Oh, yes, Your Grace," smiled Rosalie.
"Mr. Binns won't be cross with me, will he, Rosalie?" continued Prosper, playfully.
"Oh, no, Your Grace."
"Thank you, Rosalie. How is your sweetheart?"
"Quite well, thank you, Your Grace," blushed Rosalie.
"Give him my compliments and good wishes when you write to him. Tell him, from me, that Rosalie is looking quite charming."
"Oh! thank you, Your Grace!"
"Not at all, Rosalie. Do you think they would send me a cup of coffee if you asked them?"
"Oh: yes, certainly, Your Grace.
"Don't let Mr. Binns know—he would be so annoyed. He thinks that if a Duke has the misfortune to be thirsty and a little depressed at eleven o'clock in the morning he should drink a bottle of champagne with half a tumbler of liqueur brandy in it, just to clear his head and brace him up. I don't think much of that, Rosalie, do you?"
"Oh, no, Your Grace!" Rosalie looked perfectly horrified.
"You will do the very best you can for me, won't you?"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
And Rosalie tripped out.
"Pretty little thing," murmured Prosper absently, to Plutus. "You know, Plutus, my son, these little blondes are simply entrancing."
Plutus grinned. He admired Rosalie, also—she alway had a sharp eye out for a good bone for Plutus, which was more than Mr. Binns had.
Dukes are rarely, if ever, troubled with the servant question, so that almost immediately there entered to Prosper another perfectly bewitching parlormaid, bearing a tray with a cup of coffee. She was tall, slim, graceful, dark—a positively startling brunette, in short.
"Your Grace's coffee," she murmured in rich contralto accents.
"Thank you Marian, thank you. It is very kind of you. I am sure I give a great deal of trouble, don't I?"
"Oh, no, Your Grace." Marian turned a pair of great dark eyes upon him, smiling gravely.
"Ah: You only say that because you have such a kind disposition. Marian!"
"Oh, no, Your Grace." Marian flushed darkly. "If I may say so, we are all very glad to serve Your Grace."
Prosper smiled.
"Then you shall put in the sugar, Marian. How many lumps shall I have one or two or lots?"
"Your Grace usually takes one!"
"So I do, Marian, so I do. One, then, please."
MARIAN deftly added the sugar and murmuring a well trained
"Thank you, Your Grace!" moved quietly to the door.
"Thank you, Marian," said the Duke. "And—Marian!"
"Yes, Your Grace?" The dark-eyed girl turned.
"Don't tell Mr. Binns, will you."
"Certainly not, Your Grace!"
Prosper sipped his coffee, gazing at Plutus.
"After all, old chap. There is much to be said for brunettes, you know," he observed.
Plutus wagged his tail, rakishly, like one who has been a rare dog in his day.
Then somebody opened the door and a wise, little, silver-gray head appeared. It was Patience, Prosper's donkey—sedate and trim, coming in so gently that her tiny, beautifully polished hoofs made not the slightest sound on the thick, costly carpet. She, too, was looking charming—she had been clipped and cleaned until for general likeness and daintiness no lady's pet Peke could have outrivaled her. She moved like one who is accustomed to her surroundings and perfectly at ease indoors.
She stopped half-way across to Prosper, and looked at him with gentle eyes.
Plutus greeted her with a friendly yelp.
Prosper, however, did not smile. Instead he adopted an expression of some severity.
"Who—" he said to the little ass, "who has been in the orchard again, hunting for fallen apples?"
Patience blushed—at least her ears drooped slightly lower, which amounts to the same thing. She gulped and surveyed Prosper wistfully, with rather guilty eyes.
"Who, if they are presently afflicted with the stomach-ache, will have to have physic introduced into their systems by the horse leech, and not be able to come with Plutus and me—when we go wandering again," said Prosper solemnly.
The ears drooped still lower—just as the underlip of a little scolded child droops. Then Prosper laughed. "Don't look so unhappy, my pretty one—I was only joking," he said.
Instantly there was a tidal wave of relief in that funny room. Plutus dashed himself, with a total disregard for the safety of his legs, at Prosper and Patience moved forward and rubbed her head against his coat.
"Very well, then," said Prosper, and produced a letter. "Now, listen to me, both of you. I do not doubt that you feel this proposal to haunt and infest again the highways and byways to be planned in haste. I feel that myself," he confessed.
"But a word in your ears, my olds—it is an escape rather than a setting-out! You see, I dreamed a dream last night —and it sent a rush of restlessness to my feet. How did that happen, do you ask, Patience? Listen. Dining with my mother last evening in town her conversation showed more than a tendency to drift toward the duty of young men toward fair maids. She spoke of marriage, comrades, by me! And she spoke well—even movingly—her arguments were weighty, well-reasoned and clearly inspired by her often proved affection for an unworthy son. Being a fair-minded man I was inclined to agree with her. I promised to consider the matter which in her anxious concern for my welfare she rather pressed. A name was mentioned, my young friends—the name of a great lady, fair indeed to look upon, wealthy beyond any man's wildest need, and the queen of many a social triumph. So beautiful that she is adored by legions. We shall call her Lady Sylvia, little ones." He sighed a little, sipping his coffee.
"Yet no string vibrated in my deep heart to the name of this gracious lady, and I came home to dream a dream."
He paused, musing.
"This was the way of it, my olds! There was a perilous something behind the veils of that night's dreamland which reached out a strong, slender hand and coaxed me into the midst of a Pink Mist wherein awaited a great wheel, glittering and glowing with all the colors of the rainbow, and yet more. Those soft strong hands drew me unresistingly to the interior of this wonderful wheel, and the most wonderful voice in all dreamland said: 'Spin, little one, spin.' And I fidgeted with my feet and lo! the wheel spun beautifully all in the Pink Mist, and the Something said dreamily, almost like a low, exquisite singing, 'how splendidly he spins.' And I said 'Yes, do I not?' and smiled a little sheepishly and continued to spin! It was nice and warm and soft and sheltered in the Pink Mist—except every now and then when a sort of little lightning flash would 'zizz' out of the dreamy mist—very rarely missing me.... And that was how it went forever and forever and I rarely desired to quit the region of Pink Mist—except sometimes when, as I spun my wheel, there would come into my mind the thoughts of long, lonely roads under blue sky and a bright sun—running endlessly across wide, open moors, through dark, magic woodlands, or by the side of sunlit, tossing seas or, even more poignant the smell of canvas and leather and dust and wood-smoke and turf would come to me and a wistfulness that was like pain! Even the lovely voice out of the Pink Mist could not quite allay it—and it was upon me when I awoke!"
HE STOPPED short, then smiled at his friends.
"Now—was that a pre-taste of marriage with the Lady Sylvia or was it no more than after-taste of the lobster mayonnaise... I wonder."
He began to roll a cigarette, laughing little.
"Phantasies by Prosper, my olds," he said, blowing a blue plume. "No more than that, forget it—or remember only that I am ever the humble admirer, the devoted slave of that fair lady of whom I have spoken—even though I do not aspire to her white hand."
Still many months were to elapse before, entangled in an affair with a Pyramid of Lead, he met that one who was destined to make the wander-ways seem rather less than Paradise Lost, but the Pink Mist of marriage something more than Paradise Regained.
"So you, Patience, and you, Plutus, and I will have a caravan and go and drift down the wander-ways again for a little. Just tramps, you know, as we have been before. Too much wallowing at Derehurst is not good for us, my young friends. We get fat in our bodies and fat in our souls and arrogant and lazy, too, and we think too much of things we like apples in the orchard and bones from the kitchen and things like that. We must fare forth, little ones, and mix with our fellow dukes, dogs and donkeys and the rest of the world."
He paused a moment, contemplatively.
"I see you agree with me, Patience, and you are a good little ass. Plutus is not so sure he is a wallower—but it is two to one, and he will jolly well have to do as he's told—" he broke off to invite the person who had just deposited a discreet knock upon the door to enter.
The door opened in a suave, bland, urbane manner. All doors opened like this when Mr. Binns, the butler, operated their mechanisms. A large, smooth-shaven, baldish gentleman, very rubicund, and with surprisingly generous feet, entered Mr. Binns, lord of the Derehurst Castle cellars, he advanced to the Duke, throwing off, with rare skill, an impression of deferential dignity, of dignified deference. There was in his slightly protuberant and rather dull eyes a faint expression of excitement.
"Your Grace?" he said, in mellow, fruity accents.
"Speak, Binns," said Prosper cheerfully.
"I have the privilege of 'aving to inform Your Grace of a very surprising and, if I may say so, pleasant discovery this morning," announced Mr. Binns. It was interesting to note how deliberately Binns dropped an occasional "h." It was as noticeable as if the aspirate had fallen with a dull thud upon the carpet. In the inmost recesses of his soul Mr. Binns was very proud of his talent in this direction. He was not a badly educated man and he could have spoken as good English as the Duke, if not with quite so irreproachable an accent. But he would not have dreamed of doing so.
"Indeed, my Binns. What is it?"
"The port laid down by His Grace, the Seventh Duke, your Grace's grandfather—if I may remind Your Grace—has matured and is now Ready for Drinking!" said Mr. Binns in that quiet, restrained but tense manner which is so much more effective than mere dramatic noisiness.
PROSPER, checking an inclination to laugh at the extraordinary
gravity of Mr. Binns's face upon this momentous occasion, nodded
gravely.
"This is indeed a discovery, Binns," he said thoughtfully.
"Yes, Your Grace. I had expected it to lake at least another four and a half years. My late father, Your Grace, left a note behind him to that effect also. But, in many respects, port is an 'ighly perverse wine—'ighly perverse and subject to contrariness, Your Grace. But, if I may use the expression, we have caught this pipe of wine fairly on the 'op, Your Grace!"
"What luck, Binns!"
"Very fortunate, Your Grace," agreed Binns. "But I and my late father before me 'ave watched over it very close, Your Grace, subjecting it to Frequent Scrutiny, and caring for it like a child." he added with modest pride.
"I am sure you have, Binns, I am sure you have. And now, what shall we do with it?"
"Your Grace?" Mr. Binns looked puzzled and a little startled.
"What shall we do with it?"
"Do with it? Pardon me. Your Grace, I don't quite understand."
"To what use shall we put it, my dear Binns?"
Mr. Binns opened his mouth, shut it, blinked twice, shook his head, held his breath, opened his mouth again, re-shut it and, finally, looked Prosper squarely in the eyes.
"Why, Your Grace," he said firmly, "It should be Carefully Drunk! It is ready. Your Grace," he continued in an explanatory tone.
Prosper looked thoughtful.
"There is something in what you say, Binns. Decidedly there is. You had better divide two-thirds of it into six parts and send one part to each of six hospitals whose names I will give you presently—"
Mr. Binns went white.
"BUT—pardon me, Your Grace—" he said, visibly
discomposed, "it is probably the finest port in the United
Kingdom!"
"That is very fortunate, Binns, my friend—for the hospital idea is probably one of the finest ideas in our social system," smiled Prosper. Binns gulped.
"And the remainder, Your Grace?" he asked gloomily.
"Keep that for the use of the estate tenants when they are ill—and, after that, for the Castle guests."
"Very good, Your Grace," said Mr. Binns in broken accents and turned to totter away.
But it was not Prosper's way to hurt anyone's feelings. He knew that Binns was a good butler, who prided himself on his buttling. So he stepped after Binns.
"Do not think, dear Binns, that I fail to appreciate your work and attention because I do not instantly decide to become a three-bottle man and enter upon a series of staggering carousals. I am sure you have done well with the port, and you are entitled to be proud of your success and jealous of its fruits. But the hospital people need it more than I do—that's all. If you ponder a moment you must see that it is so. Ponder, Binns. And, of course. Binns, you may reserve a little drop for yourself—I am the last man to deprive an artist of the just reward of his labors."
He patted the butler approvingly on the shoulder. "Go now, Binns, with my blessing."
Binns went.
Prosper turned to his comrades.
"THIS time, my littles, we shall require a caravan, lest the
icy winds nip us in the bud." He reached for the old felt
shooting-hat he usually wore at home, lit another cigarette, and
strode towards the door.
"Allons, comrades. Let us gird ourselves up and find a horse," he said gaily. "Everything else is ready. All we need now is a horse. I am sure there must be a horse or two somewhere about the estate—I seem to have seen them at odd moments."
And so the three musketeers (as it were) went off arm-in-arm (so to speak) in search of a horse....
Prosper was right There were a few horses—some scores of them—about the Derehurst estate. They came upon one just outside the great main door of the castle—a beautiful, bright bay, spoilt darling of a horse, an Arab, delicate, dainty and haughty as a Princess in a novel. She was dancing fretfully about on the gravel in charge of an elderly groom of miraculously neat appearance.
Prosper gave an exclamation at sight of her.
"Oh, it is Melek! I quite forgot!"
He beckoned the groom.
"I have kept you waiting, Gregory. I beg your pardon. I shall not ride to-day. You must exercise Melek. I haven't time—the fact is, Gregory, we are in search of a horse. A staunch horse—honest and of a plain, homely deposition, philosophical but persevering and powerful. Not a butterfly like Melek but a great heavy horse named 'William Blunt' or 'Dogged as Does It' or something of that sort. Can you direct me to a thorough plodder?"
Gregory the groom respectfully advocated a visit to the Home Farm.
Prosper took a red apple from his pocket. "For Melek," he said. The Arab beauty ate it with an air of disdain which really belied her feelings.
Gregory turned to go, but Prosper checked him, took a cigar from his case and handed it to the elderly groom.
"For Gregory," he said lightly.
"It's like Y'r Grace," said Gregory flatly, accepted the cigar with avidity, mounted, and Melek danced away.
DOWN at the Home Farm they found many plodders and, finally,
they chose a mighty iron-gray Shire horse who wore muffs of hair
round his ankles, possessed a back as broad as a feather-bed, and
a tail like a water-fall.
"The best cart-horse in the world, Y'r Grace," said the bailiff—a massive, red man whose calves were overflowing from his gaiters. "As staunch a huss as ever I see and as sober-mannered as the side of a house, Y'r Grace."
"As sober-mannered as that! Really!" said the delighted Prosper.
"Soberer, Y'r Grace!" affirmed the bailiff.
Prosper looked at Patience—she seemed about as large us a kitten against the great horse—and addressed them both.
"I wonder if you would be willing to help him out, Patience, if he happened to get stuck in the mud? But, of course you would—you are staunch—too. Well, Josiah, my friend, I think we will take him—what is his name?"
"King o' the Shires, Y'r Grace!" said Mr. Turmatts, richly.
"Oh, dear, that is very—er—reverberant. Couldn't we call him 'Stolid Joe?' It's stolid horse I want."
Mr. Turmatts laughed jovially.
"WELL, Y'r Grace, he's your hoss, and it's your rights
to call him by what you like. Only I wouldn't go for to say,
myself, that the name of Stolid Joe suits a high-class cart-horse
like this one."
Mr. Turmatt's laugh deepened to a cavernous gurgle
"It's a funny thing Y'r Grace should ha' mentioned the name of Stolid Joe, for 'twas only yesterday I was sort of offered a creature named Stolid Joe for the King. On the road, it was, Y'r Grace." |
"A creature, Josiah—what sort of a creature?" asked Prosper.
"A elephant, Y'r Grace," said Mr. Turmatts. "By a old circus man we passed on the road. He passed me a compliment about the King and we got to talking. He asked, joking like, if I would exchange the King fur his elephant. He said his elephant—Stolid Joe, he called him—et too much and didn't attract people now like elephants used to. He said elephants was played out, anyhow—and his, he said, was wore out, too. The King'll be worth four such animals—"
Mr. Turmatts broke off as he noted a quick change on Prosper's face. It was suddenly eager, excited. Prosper quickly asked a string of questions concerning the circus man and Stolid Joe, which the rather startled bailiff answered to the best of his ability. Then they were gone, leaving behind a sudden decision that the agricultural labors of the King of the Shires need not be interrupted yet, after all, and an enthusiastic whirlwind of words which, as he gazed after the departing trio, Mr. Turmatts slowly assorted in his mind and repeated over to himself.
"We are going upon a little tour, my excellent Josiah—a little, quiet tour with a caravan. Just in a quiet, unostentatious sort of way, you know, taking no notice of anybody, and expecting nobody to take any notice of us. And if Stolid Joe isn't the very steed I'm looking for, Josiah, I shall be gravely disappointed in him—yes, gravely," muttered Mr. Turmatts to himself. He removed his hat and diligently scratched his head as he stared after his employer.
"He ain't a fool—as well I knows," said Mr. Turmatts, who, like many others, frequently failed to follow Prosper in his airiest flights. "As well I knows. But if it ain't foolish to take a elephant on a tour what you wants to be a quiet little tour, I'm darned—that's what 'tis, look!"
He replaced his hat and scratched his chin.
"This—" said solemnly, "is a rum set-out to me! Better tell the missus about this, I reckon. Wugg round, King!"
King "wugged" round.
IT WAS somewhere about six o'clock that afternoon when Mr. Prosper Fair and his comrades first found themselves more or less in touch with the circus company of which the bailiff had spoken. It is probably unnecessary to explain that Prosper could have caught the circus up within an hour or so of his interview with the bucolic Mr. Turmatts, had he been disposed to go alone, for he was the possessor of more than a sufficiency of motors. (After all, a man with an income in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year must spend it on something.) But since he purposed acquiring a third companion for his tour, he conceived it to be the correct thing to allow Patience and Plutus to make the acquaintance of Stolid Joe before acquiring him. So he had brought them with him.
He had come upon the circus camped between two towns—unexpectedly, as he was under the impression that the proprietors of these fascinating entertainments never, in any circumstances, allowed the sun to set without at least one desperate attempt to extract money from the general public in return for a performance. He had yet to learn that "Mullet's Grand Universal Traveling Hippodrome, Jungle and Wild West Show" was situated in somewhat different circumstances from most circuses.
Prosper and his friends had been crossing a rise of the Downs—for which, out of consideration for their feet, they had temporarily deserted the road—when, reaching the summit of the rise, they perceived through the first faint haze of the approaching dusk the encampment in a little valley, just off the road, between two rises.
Even in that light and at that distance Mr. Fair could see that it did not bear the appearance of a highly prosperous concern. The trio surveyed the camp in silence, for a moment. Then Prosper spoke softly.
"Well, little ones, and what, are your first impressions of Mr. Mullet's Hippodrome? For myself, I confess, that if I were requested to put a title to an oil painting of it I should suggest 'Encampment of Bankrupt Gipsies.' The tents, you will perceive, are black, probably rotten and are infested with large holes. The caravans and cages are apparently paintless and tied together with string—poor string, I should say."
A husky, coughing roar rolled dully up to them as they stared down at the camp.
"And the lion has a cold on the chest!" continued Prosper. He slipped an arm round the neck of the little donkey who had started slightly at the sound.
"Why, my dear, that, was only a lion—an elderly lion—coughing! Whyever did you jump like that? You aren't afraid of lions, are you, my pretty one? No, no, of course not. Never be afraid of lions when you have Prosper with you!" he said.
PATIENCE snuggled closer to him and Plutus, sniffling, growled
as ferociously and menacingly as a teddy-bear. He wasn't
afraid—not he. He did not possess an atom of fear in his
body.
Prosper found an apple and a biscuit for them.
"I think that we will now wend our way down to the canvas city of Mr. Mullet and discourse with him upon such things as elephants!" he said presently.
Then, as they moved forward down the slope, a long, hungry, painfully discordant howl rose shudderingly upon the air. There lives not the man, dog or donkey who can fail to recognize the howl of a wolf—even when it breaks off in a sharp, abrupt yelp, as though someone had thrown half a brick at the owner of it. Patience really jumped, this time, and Plutus clamped his tail down between his legs in a most determined manner, both crowding closer to Prosper, who laughed most reassuringly.
"Only a wolf," he said. "An old one, suffering from asthma. I suspect that the moths are worrying him. Where are your nerves, comrades?"
He rallied them into composure again, but he decided to let them wait for him out of earshot of the camp. Also out of nose-shot—for the smells were far, far more terrifying than the sounds. So he led them back over the rise, to the shelter of a circular thicket of dense gorse.
"Tarry a while in this place, apples of my eyes!" he said. "Anon, I will return again—I trust with Stolid Joe."
They looked at him gravely.
"I think I should lie down," continued Prosper. "After all, why not? Still, as you wish. Good-bye—I shan't be long—take care of each other."
He returned over the little hill and went on down toward the tents and caravans.
It occurred to him that the camp was oddly deserted—he had not yet seen a single person moving down there. It was silent, too. The caged beasts had relapsed into dumbness. The dusk was deepening rapidly now.
Just why it should have flashed into Prosper's mind that all was not well in that resting-place of Mr. Mullet's Grand Hippodrome, etc., he never knew. It may have been the lack of that bustle and hurry which one usually expects to see about a circus. But whatever the cause, it is certain that Prosper, while a hundred yards or so still separated him from the encampment, was suddenly conscious not so much of danger as a quick instinct to go cautiously—to reconnoiter a little before seeking the proprietor.
"How quaint—" he mused, "that while my instinct warns me to adopt the methods of the hosts of Midian and prowl around, my inclination is all for the tactics of the Assyrians—to come down like a wolf on the fold—charging the good Mr. Mullet at the point of the cheque book."
He thought for a moment and decided.
"Result—Instinct first, Inclination also ran!" he murmured. "Proceed, Prosper. à la Midian Hosts!" and went cautiously forward.
So cautiously, indeed, that he entered the camp absolutely without sound, gliding round the cage of an ancient, senile lion so quietly that the big beast started perceptibly at sight of him.
HE GLANCED about him and perceived that not only was the camp
deserted—or seemed so—but that it was formed as
though Mr. Mullet had no more than about half a rood of space
available, instead of thousands of acres—all Salisbury
Plain, in fact. The beast-wagons, caravans, baggage and tent
wagons were bunched so closely together that a big tarpaulin
might almost have covered the whole outfit of the circus. There
were no cooking fires, though Prosper detected a faint glow from
behind a tent on the far side and caught the acrid smell of wood
smoke.
"Clearly we have here a practical illustration of the theory that fuel can be saved by huddling close together," he said jestingly under his breath. "But where is the population? Mr. Mullet is evidently an extremely careless gentleman. What, for instance, is to prevent me from helping myself to his lion or his wolf or any other of the extremely pungent denizen of this Grand Hippodrome? Nothing at all—except my innate honesty!"
He glanced at the aged lion.
"I could steal you, old fellow, as easily as eating apples if I wanted to," he said softly.
The lion looked us if he wished Prosper would.
Then Mr. Fair continued to emulate the conduct of the Hosts of Midian and extended his prowling. By devious ways he came eventually to a small conical tent pitched somewhere near the center of the deserted conglomeration.
And there he paused, for he heard voices inside that tent.
He stood close up to the thin canvas and listened.
Something sniffed at his knee and he glanced down. It was an elaborately spotted dog—not a Dalmatian but a bull terrier which smelt of paint—a big dog, but, as far as he could see, half starved. Evidently Prosper smelt respectable for it did not bark—and gained a biscuit thereby. Prosper listened.
"Well, boss, that's the end of the bottle—we'd better get on with the job," said a voice—a hard, harsh, flattish voice which had a grinding sound in it.
"I don't like it, Professor—I don't like it," replied another voice. "Suppose we make a mistake?"
"Mistake nothing, Boss. What mistake can we make? Look at it. It's 'bust' anyway. What you've got to choose is whether you want to land on the rocks or in Easy Street after the bust. That's the knub of the thing. And the answer's 'Easy Street.' Don't you worry. Pass me that meat and the strychnine, Bella, my girl, and look alive. You leave it to me, Boss," came the voice of the man designated as Professor.
"I don't like it," said the voice of the Boss, again in a weakly stubborn way. He sounded much older than the other—an old man indeed. "Them animals have been good friends to me in their time. Lord, I've put my hand in old Wallace's mouth thousands of times and never so much as a scratch. Thousands of times. It's as good as murder to poison him—all he wants is a mat to lay down on in the sunshine and be let alone. He's as old as I am, near, and he's been a good, honest old lion. Kids could play with him. Had a kid once that used to... but God knows where she is now.... And the old wolf, too. I've often been out catching rabbits with him. He never done nobody no harm. Always ready and willing to touch off a howl for me—I reckon he's howled hundreds of pounds into the show in his time.... No, I don't like it, Professor. It's dirty... dirty. Gimme a drop more whiskey out of the flask. I'm sort of run down to-night.... We didn't ought to pizen them animals; they been good friends to me. And the old bull—you can't pizen a bull anyhow. You'd want a tub of strychnine—and he'd only ask for more. Besides, he's done too much for me, too. And look at him—look what he's like. Professor, I ain't treated that bull right. He's a good old bull—and he always was willing and he got a good heart. He's done a lot for me in his time, too. My wife always said, 'Don't you never part with that bull, Harry, while you've got the price of his feed. You'll never get another such, in all your days. He's been a friend to you and me, too—and a real friend, Harry. Mind that!' She used to say so my missus.... I'd ha' no more thought o' pizening the bull in them days than I would of pizening her...."
The slightly maundering voice stopped for a moment.
"Well, go on, Boss," came the flat, evil voice again. "Get it off your chest—say what you want to and we'll get to business."
"All right, all right, Professor," said Mr. Mullet, hastily. "I was only sort of looking back.... I dunno. I don't like it. I never thought I should ever come to pizening them animals. I ain't got the head on me I used to have.... Anyhow you can't pizen the old bull.... It ain't a right thing to do—and it ain't anyways possible. So I reckon the job's off."
The Professor laughed—a mirthless, sinister sound.
"No. But a bullet in the right place will do him, I guess. Put him out of his misery. And if you've said all you want to say, Boss—and it does you credit, mind, it shows your good disposition, I don't deny that, although a good disposition ain't much without a bank account—"
"A fallacy, most noble Professor, which too many are prone to accept as a great and shining truth!" whispered Prosper to himself.
"—ain't worth nothing, in fact, without money to back it," jarred the voice of the Professor. "And what you want is money for your old age, not a few worn-out animals. And you can't help yourself, Boss, anyways you look at it. Now, you listen to me and I'll put you wise to the real hard facts of how you really stand."
"The Boss is right, Jim, and you know it!" cut a thin voice abruptly—a woman's voice, with a faint American accent, evidently that of Bella—"I can't see how he can have the heart to let those poor old crocks be poisoned, money or—"
"You shut your jaw!" rasped Professor Jim. "You've got too much sentiment about you." There was a snarl in his voice now, and Prosper, his hand on the shoulder of the friendly bull terrier, felt the stiff hackles of the dog rise.
A woman flounced out of the tent, muttering sullenly—and walked right into Prosper's arms.
She gasped in astonishment, but Prosper stepped back lightly, beckoning her to follow him.
For a moment she hesitated—then came on.
Prosper won clear of the wagons before he stopped.
"Who are you?" demanded the woman, peering at him through the dusk.
"A pilgrim—only a pilgrim upon Life's Highway—one of the least of them!" replied Prosper lightly.
"Well, Mr. Man, get on with your pilgrimage, there's no vacancies for any pilgrims in this show at present. We want martyrs," said the woman, sardonically humorous.
"Oh, I am an experienced martyr, also, I assure you, madam," explained Prosper.
"Rich martyrs, I meant," vouchsafed the lady.
"Ah, you have me there—perhaps."
He was aware that she was studying him curiously in the dusk.
"You don't talk like a tramp," she said presently. "And if you aren't a tramp you must be pretty much of a crazy fool to be hanging round a concern like this up on these Downs at this time of day. What do you want?"
Prosper produced a cigarette case. "Do you care to smoke a cigarette?"
She took the case.
"Do I care to eat? Gee! That's gold, that box! Is your name Rockefeller?" she said, returning the case. The flame of a match revealed her as a dark, thin, hawk faced passée woman of forty.
"Who are you, anyway, and why?"
"I am an elephant buyer," said Prosper, in the easy tones of one accustomed to having large herds of these captivating pachyderms consigned to him daily. "And I understand that the proprietor of this circus has one for sale. Am I misinformed?"
"Is he misinformed?" echoed the woman, incredulously. "No, Mr. Pilgrim, you are not misinformed. There is a bull for sale here."
"Good. I will buy him."
"Consider him yours."
"But—er—as to price, my dear lady?"
"Well—fifty bones won't hurt you, will it?"
"Bones? Pardon my denseness, but—"
"Sovereigns then," translated the lady, eagerly.
"Fifty pounds? It sounds little enough for an elephant. May I see him?"
"Are you a judge of elephants?"
"Indeed, yes."
"Ah, well, you can't see him."
"May I ask why?"
"Sure. He's only worth fifty pounds to a man who hasn't seen him."
"I understand...." Prosper pondered. Then, abruptly, he said:
"Tell me, dear lady, why does the Professor want to poison the animals? Why is the ramp deserted? Why has Mr. Mullet encamped in this lonely place? Why are the wagons jammed so close together? Why is the elephant for sale? Why, if he must 'bust' in any case, has Mr. Mullet the choice between landing on the rocks or in Easy Street?"
"Why?" said the woman with a bitter laugh. "Why? Call it fate!"
"Fate?" repeated Prosper, inviting further confidences.
"Little old Mr. Fate his very self!" she replied.
But Prosper caught the undertone of misery in her hard flippancy.
"You are bitter," he said, gently. "Try not to be bitter.... You know it is never worth while. Never... believe me. Why not tell me the whole trouble?"
For a moment the woman was silent. Prosper saw her glance sideways as though she looked toward the tent of Mr. Mullet and the Professor. Then, eagerly, impulsively, she paid Prosper Fair the finest compliment he had over known.
"Why? Pilgrim," she said softly. "I can't see you—I don't know you, but I like your voice. I'll tell you..." Her breath came like a sob.
"Give me a minute, Pilgrim."
Prosper waited for her to recover herself. It was not long.
"Who you are and what you want gets past me," she said almost at once. "But I'll tell you in one and a half words. That circus down there is bust. It's been more or less bust for the last six months but to-day it's bust for fair. And it's here for its finish. There's no food left for the animals and no money to buy it. The show tent's in rags and there's no money to mend it. And the Company have grabbed what horses are worth grabbing, for back wages, and cleared out. It's bust—that's the word and you can't embroider it, can you? If you could see the animals that are left you'd understand why the Boss can't sell them. You'd know it's because they aren't worth buying. So the Professor wants to poison them and—she hesitated.
"Is there any insuranre?" asked Prosper.
"Yes," she muttered, like a woman talking against her will. "But it runs out next week."
"So if an accident should happen—for instance—such as a fire that burnt all traces—it would indeed be Easy Street for Mr. Mullet instead of the Rocks?"
"If you put it that way, yes."
"I see," said Prosper slowly. "I prophesy that the accident will happen."
"If the Professor has his own way," said the woman.
Prosper thought swiftly.
"I am conscious of an overwhelming impulse to hold a little conference with Mr. Mullet and the Professor—especially the Professor," said Prosper.
A sudden bestial snarl came from one of the cages—the sound that a hungry beast makes at the first sight of his food—and the woman gripped Prosper's arm.
"That's the wolf—he's getting his! Run!" she said. "Watch out for the Professor—he's the real rough stuff!"
And Prosper ran for the life of that worn-out wolf as desperately as he would have run for the life of a human being.
EVIDENTLY the man who wished first to poison the animals and then burn the circus to ashes for the sake of what fire insurance there was had succeeded in overcoming the scruples of the broken Mr. Mullet, for even as Prosper reached the wolf's cage that was now lighted up by a blaring naphtha flare he saw a tall individual on the point of thrusting under the bars of the cage a chunk of red meat. The old wolf, half-starved, was leaping to and fro, slavering and snarling with hunger. Close by, watching, stood an old man, white haired, white-faced, still feebly muttering that he didn't like it—that it wasn't "a right thing to pizen them animals."
Prosper lost no time whatever—none whatever, the strychnine-loaded chunk of meat was touching the bars even as he reached the Professor.
"Ah!" said Mr. Fair, and lashed out for the grim, hard face of the poisoner. He hooked him to the jaw and added a straight punch.
The Professor went down like a top-heavy ninepin—but he rose again like a stone out of a catapult, roaring. He snatched up the heavy iron feeding fork and swung a double-handed claymore shot at Prosper which if it had landed would have left the Devizes' dukedom completely vacant. But Prosper ducked like lightning and ran in under the flailing iron.
Not for nothing had Mr. Fair, in the mixed past, visited daily the academy of a simple-mannered Japanese gentleman in Hakodate whose means of livelihood it was to teach all who possessed the necessary yens wherewith to pay, the gentle art of grabbing one's fellow man by certain portions of his anatomy in such a way that within a space of seconds the said fellow man is urgently confronted with the choice of complete surrender or a broken limb. This art is humorously described ju jitsu.
So that almost immediately that "real rough stuff," the Professor, claimed the privilege of surrendering.
He rose, a sobered and wiser man.
"Hell!" he snarled, touching his arm. "You've broken it, you murderer!"
"Interesting, if true," said Prosper, coldly. "It will always be a source of poignant regret to me that I did not decide upon your neck instead of your arm."
The "rough stuff" grinned like a trapped hyena turning at bay.
"You meant to break it!" he gritted
"Really I hardly know," said Mr. Fair. "Did I? What is your opinion. Mr. Mullet?"
Mr. Mullet mumbled that be did not know.
"Nor I, nor I—so that's settled," said Prosper briskly. "Now, let us get to business. Mr. Mullet. I should like a little chat with you."
"But how about me—what about this arm?" snarled the Professor, uneasily.
"My good egotist, don't thrust yourself and your arm forward so! One would think you were the only person in Merrie England with a broken arm. You give yourself airs, indeed you do. We are so tired of you and your broken arm. Go and show it to the wolf," advised Prosper, with a lack of sympathy which would have been unlike him had the arm really been broken, instead of being merely wrenched.
The Professor, glaring and muttering, turned to the woman, holding up his numbed arm to her with his other hand. She looked at the dangling limb without much interest.
"What is it? A rabbit skin?" she inquired icily. "Better bathe it.... You've got what you've given to a good many others, Professor. Bite on it. You get the full flavor that way."
She left him to himself and joined Prosper and Mr. Mullet
"Uncle," she said, "this gentleman wants to buy a bull. He collects 'em. Sell him Stolid Joe."
Mr. Mullet brightened up astonishingly.
"That's a good bull, that bull is. A good bull and as gentle as a lamb. My wife, used to say, 'Harry, don't you ever part with that bull—'"
"Yes, yes, Uncle, but let's get to business. Bulls eat hearty, and food costs money. You'll have to sell—if Mr. Pilgrim'll buy. Come inside!"
They went into the tent, the woman lighting a naptha flare at the entrance. Mr. Mullet sat down on a trunk and politely invited Prosper to take the upturned pail. Prosper declined gently.
"I think if it is quite convenient to you, Mr. Mullet, that I should like to make the acquaintance of the—er—bull."
The woman went to the tent flap and called out into the darkness. Also she fetched another naphtha flare.
"We'll be honest with you, Mr. Pilgrim," she said. "A man who buys a bull in the dark might find it cheaper to buy a pig in a poke.... Joe! Hey, you Joe! Hyah! Joe!"
Prosper, standing at the tent entrance, perceived suddenly that a mighty bulk had swung into view from behind some vans. It came on slowly like a house moving and, at a word from Bella, stopped short full in the glare of the lights, not more than two or three yards from Prosper.
It was Stolid Joe
"HE ain't really lame, that bull ain't," said Mr. Mullet hastily.
"It's because of his corns. I'll cut 'em to-morrow.... He's a
good bull and he's been a good friend to me. He never did have
but one tusk—lost the other as a calf—but he's as
handy with it as most bulls with two tusks.... A fine
bull—fine. I love that old bull, Mr. Pilgrim.... His tail
ain't broke—it was always that way, kind of kinky. He
ain't in good condition but he only wants feeding up and light
work to get him right...."
The old man went mumbling on but Prosper hardly heard him. He was looking at Stolid Joe.
In his day the elephant had been a noble beast, but his day was past. He was painfully, painfully thin, his skin hung on him like a man's overcoat on a boy, and his backbone stood up like a blade. His great ragged ears hung low and his trunk was out of curl, limp and lank. He looked at Prosper with melancholy eyes, from each of which, running downward, was a dark, wet stain—as it might have been the path of tears.
"I ain't done right by that old bull—he's been a better friend to me than I been to him—ain't you, Joe?" maundered Mr. Mullet.
Stolid Joe curled his trunk up in acknowledgment of the remark and wearily let it unroll again.
"Why, you poor, patient old chap," said Prosper suddenly, and went impulsively to the elephant and smoothed the dry, corrugated trunk, patting the great horny shoulder. "I believe you've been crying—if elephants do cry."
"Yes, mister, bulls cry—I've seen it many a time—" said Mr. Mullet. "Many a time. Don't they, Bella?"
The elephant raised his trunk again and inserted the tip delicately into Prospers pocket. There was one apple left and one biscuit.
"Take them, old man," said Prosper. "I am quite sure that neither Patience nor Plutus would grudge them to you."
He stepped back.
"The bull likes you, Mr. Pilgrim. He's took to you. I can see it—I know it. He's a good old bull...." said Mr. Mullet.
"I am glad of that," said Prosper who, except for Patience and Plutus had never taken so great a liking to any animal before. "For I am here to buy him—at your price, Mr. Mullet. How much do you want for him? Don't be afraid to ask a fair price."
The old-man hesitated, peered long at Prosper with dim eyes, then looked at the elephant, at his niece, and finally back at Prosper. Then he spoke.
"I'M an old man, Mr. Pilgrim, and I dunno as I got the heart
to part with that old bull for money. My wife used to say 'Mind,
Harry, don't you never sell that bull—he's a friend....'
But I like the look o' you, Mr. Pilgrim, and if you'll gimme your
honest word that you'll give the bull a good home as long as he
lives he's yours! I got to part with him, anyhow—but I'd
sooner know he had a good home than take money for him."
Prosper was touched more deeply than he found comfortable. He spoke quickly, as was his way when moved.
"One moment, Mr. Mullet," he said. "You are ruined, I believe. What do you say to sharing the good home I shall provide for Stolid Joe? We'll have the lion and the wolf and any other old friends you care to bring. There will be men to tend them and you shall superintend them. We'll look after the bull between us. Could you stand that, Mr. Mullet?—a country life, of course."
"Stand it?" The old man blinked helplessly from Prosper to his niece.
"Aw! Don't play with him," said the woman angrily. "D'you know what it would cost?"
"Play with him!" cried Prosper. "My dear lady, do you imagine I am joking? I mean it. The cost! Good God, what has cost to do with it?"
Mr. Mullet spoke, trembling.
"I ain't very clear about it all, Mister Pilgrim," he said shakily. "But if it's true it'll jest about keep me out of the workhouse."
"Well, then, we'll call it settled." said Prosper.
The woman moved forward.
"But—after all—who are you, anyway, Mr. Pilgrim? It's funny—all this. But—well, I guess I've got a right to know. I'm the only friend or relative he's got."
"My name is Devizes—Duke of!" said Prosper lightly.
"Duke of Devizes!"
"Exactly. Prosper Fair, for short. Do you believe me?"
The woman looked him square in the eyes. "I do," she said simply.
"Good. All's well." Prosper offered her his hand and they shook. The hardness suddenly faded out of the dark, haggard face of the woman.
"Ah! If all men were like you!" she cried sharply, and her hand flew to her face. Many bitter years had trained and fortified her against harshness—but kindness, such kindness as this, disarmed her. She disappeared into the tent, weeping.
Prosper turned to the old man.
"Don't puzzle over things, Mr. Mullet," he said. "Believe me, everything will be all right—"
But Mr. Mullet, with the wisdom of old age which quite naturally looks to receive rather than to give, was now quite serene.
"I know, Your Honor—no, no, that's for County Court Judges—I mean Your Grace. Don't mind her. Women... they carry on. You're a gentleman—and I can trust a gentleman. Now, just a minute, sir—Your Grace!"
He look Prosper's arm and together they faced the elephant.
"Joe!" said Mr. Mullet in a tone he had not used before. "Look at this gentleman! He's your Boss, now. Un'stand? Your—new—Boss! Take your orders from him—and carry 'em out! Same as if they was from me! Mind that! He'll treat you well, old man—better than poor old Harry Mullet ever did. Better. Mind that! He's a gentleman—a Juke—you're a Juke's bull now. So behave yourself! Mind that!"
The great ears slowly came forward and the elephant's trunk curled upward.
"All right, old man, all right. I ain't leavin' neither. When His Grace the Juke ain't usin' you, old Mullet will be somewheres round about. But—mind now!—you're his. His Grace the Lord Juke of Devizes' bull elephant! Stolid Joe! You're on Easy Street at last! Salaam!"
The elephant's trunk curled back until the tip touched the great ridged forehead, remained so a moment, and fell.
Stolid Joe understood....
"He'll do what you tell him to now," said Mr. Mullet rather shakily.
"Good." replied Prosper. "We'll soon get him fit, if feeding and care will do it. Tomorrow we will settle all the details. I will send over my agent and arrange about the animals and the outfit. Meantime I have two little friends waiting for me close by. If you will excuse me for a few moments, Mr. Mullet, I would like to introduce Stolid Joe to them. We shall not be long away and no doubt you would like a chat with your niece."
"So do, so do, Your Grace." said Mr. Mullet.
Prosper unhooked one of the naphtha flares and addressed Stolid Joe like a brother. "Come on, young Joe."
HE moved on and, obedient as an old setter, "young Joe" moved
after him.
Patience and Plutus were on the lookout. They had moved out from the gorse thicket and were staring anxiously through the weird light shed by a rising moon toward the camp.
"Well, my littles," called Prosper cheerily, walking in the shadow of Stolid Joe. "I am back again. Patience, my dear, let me introduce a friend of mine—Stolid Joe. Plutus, my son, take notice. Joseph is coming with us upon our next tour. Welcome him—be kind to him for he has had a chequered career. I want you to like him. Stolid Joe—Salaam."
The elephant salaamed gravely.
The tiny gray donkey, her ears pricked like a hare's, stared at the bull solemnly, very solemnly, for a long time.
"Well, little ones?" asked Prosper softly.
Then Patience suddenly relaxed her attitude of strained attention and trotted forward to Prosper with a queer little snuffling noise. She could not have put it more plainly. Any respectable friend of Prosper's was a friend of hers....
And Plutus? Well, what Prosper said was good enough for Plutus—he was no kill-joy.
"Splendid!" said Prosper. "Now we will go back to the camp. Don't be afraid of the lion or the wolf, you two—be sorry for them. You'll see quite a lot of them later. And now, follow Prosper, all of you!"
And so they went down to the camp.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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