CHAPTER XIII

WHEREIN THEY MEET THE WILD MAN OF THE TARTARY STEPPES

They were talking it over. It was after five o’clock and they were sitting in the deserted dressing tent, to which Dan, as was his privilege as a member of “America’s Greatest Circus and Hippodrome,” had invited them. Barry was curled up in Dan’s lap. Jerry had taken himself away to his duties.

“I knew I could do it,” Dan was explaining. “When Jerry told about it I just made up my mind that if the money didn’t come I’d go to Murray and ask for the place. And I did. He didn’t think I was quite right in my mind at first, but I asked him to let me show what I could do, and finally he agreed. Then”--Dan grinned reminiscently--“then I borrowed two dollars and a half from him, half the pay for one performance----”

“Gosh! Did he only give you five dollars for doing that?” asked Tom.

“Well, I wanted more, but he said he’d only paid Donello five, so I gave in. Then I had some lunch in the village, found you fellows, gave you that two dollars, and went to the tent. They had got the ladder and tank filled up, and I got into my tights. Jerry went with me to see fair play. He didn’t want me to try it, Jerry didn’t, but I shut him up and made him promise not to tell you fellows.”

“Lucky you did,” grunted Bob.

“That’s what I thought,” laughed Dan. “But, pshaw, it wasn’t any stunt! Just a straight drop; and there wasn’t any possibility of missing the tank.”

“But supposing you had?” asked Nelson quietly. Dan turned and looked at him a second.

“Well, then I’d got considerably messed up, I guess,” he answered soberly. “Well, I tried a dive from about twenty feet up first; the platform is adjustable, you see; and it went all right. Then I went clear up and tried it from the top. And that went all right too. It seemed a long ways down at first, and I wondered whether the tank would stay there until I got to it. But it did. Then I did it again and tried a somersault. Murray was tickled to death. ‘You stay with us,’ he said, ‘and you’ll be making big money in a year or two.’ Then I thought to myself, what’s the use in doing only one flop when there’s lots of time for two? I asked Murray, but he didn’t like it at first. Said Donello was considered one of the best in the business and he was always satisfied with one turn. But I made up my mind to try it, and I did. It was dead easy. Murray wanted to hug me. Then he wanted me to sign a contract for six months and went up on his price; offered me two hundred dollars a month for two performances daily.”

“Gee!” gasped Tom.

“Well, that’s what I thought,” answered Dan with a laugh. “And I had to think a long while before I got up courage to say no. But that wasn’t the last of it. He’s after me yet. Maybe he’ll get me after all.”

“Not if I know it!” said Nelson indignantly. “I’d send for your dad the first thing. Nice stunts for a chap who’s just out of bed from typhoid fever!”

“Just out of bed, your granny! Well, anyway, I’ve agreed to do it again to-night.”

“You have!”

“Yep.”

“Oh, cut it out,” said Bob. “We’ve got money enough. Besides, maybe your dad’s telegram is at the office by this time.”

“I know, but I can’t go back on my promise, and I promised to perform twice.”

“Well, don’t you go and try to improve on it,” begged Nelson. “Don’t try to put in three somersaults instead of two.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dan, grinning, “that’s an idea! I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Shut up!” begged Nelson. “If you try that trick you’ll be Done-ello for sure.”

“Instead of _Dan_ello,” added Tom.

“Wasn’t it great about Barry?” asked Nelson. “He was on my lap and I didn’t know what he was up to until he was kiting across lots with his leash dangling after him. Did you hear the crowd laugh? Barry made the hit of the performance.”

“Well, how about supper? Suppose you fellows come with me. I’m to eat with the push here, and I guess Murray’ll let you come along if I agree to pay for you.”

“That’s dandy!” said Tom. “We’ll eat with Zul-Zul and the Wild Man!”

“You’d better look out, Tommy,” Bob advised. “Maybe he’ll eat you, you’re so fat and rosy.”

So Dan disappeared for a moment, and presently returned with the news that Murray had given him permission to take the others to supper as his guests.

“He’s mighty nice to you, isn’t he?” asked Nelson sarcastically.

That supper was one of the ever-remembered features of the trip. Jerry found places for them at one end of the long table, and they looked about them with frank curiosity. Overhead naphtha torches flared, throwing deep shadows on the pine boards that formed the table. The sides of the tent were up here and there, and from without came the sound of the crickets, the voices of Mr. Foley and his companion at the stoves, and the scrape and clash of pans and utensils. Inside, the air became hot and heavy under the shallow curve of canvas, the tin plates and cups glimmered, the steam drifted up from the hot viands, and the noise was at first deafening.

This was the first table, Jerry informed them, and accommodated the performers and the “staff,” the “staff” being the management. The canvasmen, drivers, animal men, and the other hands ate later at a second table. Across from the Four sat the ringmaster, between a pleasant-faced and rather elderly woman and a thin youth with pale cheeks whom Nelson recognized as the leader of the “family” of trick skaters. He wondered who the woman was, and would have been wondering yet, doubtless, had not his neighbor, a good-natured little Irishman, come to his assistance.

“You’re frinds of the laddie that did the jomp?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Nelson. “We four are together. We’re taking a walking trip along the island.”

“Is thot so? Well, I didn’t see the jomp myself, but I heard the boys talkin’ about it. ’Twas a pretty lape, they said.”

“Yes; but I was awfully scared. I was afraid he’d miss the tank.”

“I suppose so. Is he goin’ to shtay wid the show?”

“Oh, no; he only joined for to-day.” Nelson told briefly of the robbery and their subsequent adventures, and the little Irishman chuckled enjoyably.

“Sure, ’tis the plucky lad he is. But he’s right, the circus be’s no place for a gintleman.”

“Do you belong?” asked Nelson innocently. Then he blushed and stammered until the Irishman laughed his embarrassment away.

“Sure, there’s no offinse, me boy. I’m no gintleman. Yes, I belongs to the show. Now, what would you think I was, sir?”

Nelson studied him a moment and shook his head.

“Are you--are you a clown?”

“Faith, no,” chuckled the other, “’tis not as bad as thot. Was you in the side show? No? Well, you’d have seen me there if you’d been. They call me ‘Boris,’ bedad! ’Tis a disgraceful, onchristian name, but it’s money in me pocket.”

“Boris? Why, I thought Boris was the--the----”

“The Wild Mon of the Tar-_tary_ Shteppes? Thot’s me, me lad. Raw mate’s me shpecialty and I shpake no word of any known language.”

Nelson glanced at the Wild Man’s plate, well filled with steak and potatoes, and laughed. The Wild Man joined him.

“’Tis a faker I am. Me name’s Thomas Cronan an’ I was born in the wilds of County Clare, which is the grane garden spot of ould Ireland. Sure, we’re all fakers in the side show. Mrs. Wheet over there is ‘Princess Zoe’ and does thricks with three ould shnakes thot’s had the shtingers yanked out of them. She’s a lady, too, me boy, if iver there was one.”

Nelson, to his surprise, discovered that “Princess Zoe” was the nice-looking elderly lady at the ringmaster’s right.

“An’ further along there,” continued his informant, “is ‘Zul-Zul,’ which her name is Maude Harris. She used to be an equistreen--rode the horses, you know--till she had a fall and hurted her back. Thin she blached her hair and now they call her an al-bin-o, which is an ungodly name to my mind.”

“She--she sings, doesn’t she?” asked Nelson, observing the young lady in question.

“Same as onybody sings, me boy, no more an’ no less.”

“Oh,” said Nelson. “And do you--like being a Wild Man?”

“I do an’ I don’t,” responded the other judicially. “’Tis asy money, but the life’s confinin’. I’m thinkin’ I had the best of it when I was drivin’ the tent wagon. Thot’s what I used to do. Come an’ see me this avenin’, an’ bring your frinds. Tell Billy Conly, the feller outside, I said he was to let you in.”

“Thanks,” answered Nelson. “And I’ll bring some raw meat with me.”

“Sure,” answered the Wild Man, laughing as he arose from the table, “it’s kind of you, me boy, but I could ate no more to-night. We’re shmall aters on the Tar-_tary_ Shteppes.”

After supper Nelson and Dan walked to the telegraph office, and this time found the money awaiting them. There was also a telegram from Mr. Speede.

“Away when your message came,” it read. “Have sent fifty. Sorry for delay. Try and write oftener and send address.”

“I guess they’re worrying about us having the money swiped,” said Dan. “I’ll write to-morrow. There ought to be some letters for us at Bahogue. Supposing we walk on there to-night after the show? It’s only about four miles and it’ll be fairly light, I guess. Wait.” He turned back to the operator. “What’s a good hotel at Bahogue?” he asked.

“There’s the Seaview and the Bahogue House. They’re both good, I guess.”

“Seaview sounds good to me,” said Dan. “Is there an office at Bahogue?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Give me a blank.”

“Reserve two rooms for me to-night,” wrote Dan. “Will arrive about midnight. D. H. F. Speede.”

“Will you get that off for me, please?” he asked.

They paid for the message, thanked the operator, said good night, and went back to the circus, Barry, off his leash for the moment, cutting all sorts of wild capers. Later the Four paid a visit to the side show. The performance in the main tent had begun, and they had the place almost to themselves. The Wild Man of the Tartary Steppes was seated in a chair on a platform. He was dressed in yellow tights with a strip of leopard skin about his hips and a string of bones about his neck. A formidable club rested against his knees. On his head was a wig of loose and long black hair, and his face was painted with black and red stripes. He was not attractive, but nevertheless the picture on the canvas outside was a base libel. He tipped Nelson a portentous wink, jabbered something at him, and made signs with his hands which Nelson translated as demands for raw meat. There were a few people wandering about the tent, and so Nelson and the others waited until they had gone before approaching the wild man. Then,

“Well, boys,” said Mr. Cronan, “how are ye the avenin’?”

“Fine,” answered Nelson. “I’ve brought my friends in to see you. They’ve never seen a Wild Man before.”

“Think of thot!” sighed Mr. Cronan. “Sure where was they edicated?”

“Are you going to eat any raw meat this evening?” asked Tom with a grin.

“Have you ony wid you?”

Tom had to acknowledge that he hadn’t.

“There it is, then,” sighed Mr. Cronan again. “How am I to ate it if I haven’t got it? ’Tis onreasonable you are, me lad.”

There were several photographs of the Wild Man lying along the edge of the platform, and Nelson picked one up and looked at it.

“Ain’t thot a beautiful thing?” asked Mr. Cronan. “Does it do me justice, do you think? Put it in your pocket, me boy, an’ show it to your frinds when you git home. Tell ’em ’tis the picter of a Wild Mon what chased ye down on Long Island.”

“I’d like to have it,” laughed Nelson, “but I’d rather pay you for it.”

“You pays nothin’,” answered Mr. Cronan firmly. “Put it in your pocket, like I say, wid me compliments. Howld on! Give it me a minute.” The Wild Man found a stump of a pencil in a hidden pocket, inverted the photograph on his knee, stuck his tongue in his cheek, and laboriously wrote. “There, ’tis much more valuable now.”

Nelson accepted it and thanked him. On the back was written in letters half an inch high: “Your frand, Thomas Cronan, the wild man.” They were formally introduced to the Snake Charmer, the Albino Patti, and the Fortune Teller; also to a sad-looking little man in a suit of misfit clothes whose duty it was to lecture about the attractions. Presently they said good-by to Mr. Cronan and went out to the ticket booth. Dan tried to pay for three reserved seats for his companions, but the ticket seller refused to accept any money.

“Go ahead in,” he said smilingly, pushing the tickets and the money toward them. “This is on the show.”

So they thanked him, presented their tickets, and were shown to seats, Dan, however, leaving them to go to the dressing tent and taking Barry with him. There was not so great a crowd as in the afternoon, but for all that the big tent was comfortably filled. They had grown to know a number of the performers by sight now, and the evening performance proved more interesting for that reason. Dan’s fame had spread, and when, near the end of the performance, he appeared at the foot of the ladder, quite a salvo of applause greeted him.

“Look at Barry!” exclaimed Tom.

Dan had brought the terrier in with him, and now, when he began to mount the ladder, Barry started after him. The audience laughed and clapped. Barry managed three rounds of the ladder by hooking his paws over them and dragging his body up, but that was as high as he could get. Three times he made the attempt and three times he tumbled off. Then he gave it up, barked once, and stood watching his master. As before, the tent became stilled, Dan’s voice came down eerily from the platform, the drums rolled, the ringmaster cracked his whip and shouted his shrill “_In mid-air!_” the dropping pink figure revolved twice, and the water splashed from the tank. Then, as the applause broke out, Dan’s wet head appeared, and Barry leaped frantically toward it. Fighting the terrier off, Dan scrambled from the tank with the assistance of two of the red-coated men, and, grabbing Barry in his arms, disappeared toward the dressing tent.

Afterwards they sought and found Jerry. The mess tent was gone, the wagon packed, and that department was all ready for the road.

“Where do you go next, Jerry?” Bob asked.

“Ridgefield,” answered Jerry. “It’s about forty miles. We travel all night.”

“Don’t you ever go by railroad?” asked Nelson.

“Not when we can help it. It costs more, you see. Some of the performers take the train, though.”

“Well, good-by, Jerry. Take care of yourself; and I’ll write to you soon. Where is it you’re going to work?”

“Mr. Osgood’s farm,” answered Jerry. “It’s about two miles from Barrington.”

“And you’ll be there in October?”

“Before, I guess,” answered Jerry. “There ain’t much money in this, an’ since I seen you fellows again----”

He hesitated. Then,

“I kind of got more anxious to make that money,” he finished. “I guess I’ll leave the show about the twentieth.”

“Well, good luck, Jerry. We’ll see you again, I guess; anyway, I’ll write to you, because I think I’ll have some news for you.”

“What--what sort of news?” asked Jerry anxiously.

“Well, good news; I can’t tell you any more now. Good-by.”

They all shook hands, and then Jerry, as though loath to part from them, walked out to the road with them and called a final good-by from there.

“Did you get your money from the circus folks?” asked Tom of Dan, as, with packs once more on their backs, they strode off toward the village.

“You bet. But, say, fellows, I had an awful time getting away. Murray made all sorts of offers, and finally I promised him that if I ever changed my mind I’d let him know right away.”

“It was a crazy business,” observed Bob.

“But it found us our dinners,” said Tom philosophically.

“You can always be sure of Tommy’s point of view,” laughed Nelson.

It was a clear, calm night, and walking was a pleasure. They were all well rested, and the four miles intervening between Millford and Bahogue were soon covered. A few minutes before they reached the hotel the ocean sprang into view, and they heard the beat of the waves on the beach.

“Sounds good to me,” sighed Bob. “Who’s for a bath in the morning?”

Evidently all were, even Barry, who, excited by the chorus of assent, barked loudly. They found the Seaview House without difficulty, assaulted the office gong until a sleepy porter appeared, wrote their names on the register--Dan signing as “Signor Danello”--and were shown to their rooms.

“Gee!” sighed Dan a few minutes later as he pulled the covers down and rolled under them. “A real bed again! This thing of sleeping nigh to nature is all very fine, Nel, but--the downy couch for mine every time! Good night!”