by Jim Tully
Cameron would take on a different appearance and actually look to be years older—a man drawn with illness. Once in the mayor’s presence he would tell a sad tale of sickness and bad business and very gloomy prospects for the rest of the season. Nearly always he would leave with a license costing but a fraction of the regular price which other shows paid. And often the license was given for nothing.
If the mayor was too obdurate, Cameron’s shoulders drooped more, his walk became more painful. He often limped. He would pace up and down in front of the town hall, or sit on the front steps, elbows on knees, head in hands. After attracting as much attention as possible, he would limp painfully before the local authorities. If the mayor or town clerk were present he would tell his story. If not, he would ask to have him sent to him, and explain that he was too ill to walk further. His tale was a masterpiece of pathos.
“I am old and ill and my days are about done. I am unable to pay salaries and if the license fee is large, my men will become charges in this my native state. I little dreamed that I as a boy would come to this. I wore the uniform of grey (or blue) for this state. It was at the battle of Shiloh that a bullet brought me the limp in my right leg.” The authorities would look at his dejected appearance, and grant him that which he wished.
The result was generally a free license. No mayor wanted a show stranded in his town. The mayor would often send for the owner of the lot upon which the show was playing. The rent would be made cheaper. Sometimes the grocer and the butcher reduced their prices also.
If the mayor was “too Scotch or churchy” or “a Christer,” as Cameron would say—the circus owner would wear the makeup all day. Usually, however, when the license was given and the rent reduced, Cameron would return to the car and don his loudest checked raiment. In one town, after Cameron had changed clothes and was talking in front of the main tent, the mayor approached and asked him solicitously about the old man who had appeared at the city hall. Cameron never forgot the compliment.
Once Cameron failed dismally in all efforts to get a cheaper license or not. Neither was he to be allowed to parade until the license money was paid. In this case it was three hundred dollars. “God Almighty,” yelled Cameron, “I wouldn’t pay three hundred dollars for Bill Bryan as a freak.” The rent for the lot was also exorbitant.
Cameron learned that the county line was close to the town.
He soon discovered that there was no county license for tent shows. In less than an hour he had arranged for a lot and the show played both performances.
Though Cameron pleaded, the town, governed by religious fanatics, would not allow the “sinful circus” to parade.
The lot which Cameron secured was a mile from the railroad yards where we unloaded. We were told to get ready as if for parade and start for the circus grounds at eleven that morning.
We made our way slowly down the main street, the band playing, the circus wagons rumbling.
The chief of police rode up on a large white horse.
“What do you mean by paradin’ when we told you not to?” he yelled.
“We’re not paradin’,” replied Cameron blandly, “we are within the law in going to a lot which we have rented honorably and without malice aforethought.”
“You’re all arrested,” screamed the chief. “I’ll show you that you can’t make fun of the laws of ———.”
“I don’t wanta be unkind, brother, but don’t you see it’ll break the town feedin’ this bunch?” said the suave Cameron while the circus parade stretched several blocks away awaiting entrance to the city jail. The chief hastily held a parley with other officials. Cameron’s circus was allowed to turn about and make its way to the circus grounds while the band played the battle cry of the circus, to the blare of clarinet and fife and roar of drum:
’Twas just about ten years ago,
Too early yet for ice or snow;
Thru’ bounteous Texas coming down,
A circus with a funny clown.
“Hey Rube”
The boys warn’t feeling very well,
The reason why I cannot tell,
And as they made each little town,
They whispered when the “Gawks” came round
“Hey Rube”
It’s a little phrase, ’tis true;
Its meaning well each faker knew
And e’en the weakest heart was stirred,
At mention of that magic word,
“Hey Rube”
“They’ll eat you up in this ’ere town,
The boys’ll tear your circus down,”
Thus spoke a man with hoary head.
The main “Guy” winked, and softly said
“Hey Rube”
They gathered round, about three score,
I am not sure but there were more,
Red-hot and eager for the fray;
The boys all thought, but didn’t say
“Hey Rube”
The ball was opened, like a flash,
Above the battle’s din and dash,
As a thunderbolt hurled from the sky,
Rang loud and long the battle cry,
“Hey Rube”
’Twas finished; the smoke rolled away,
As clouds before the sun’s bright ray;
That Texan chivalry was gone
They couldn’t sing that circus song,
“Hey Rube”
“Gawks, Guys, and Rubes,” another day
When e’er a circus comes your way,
And you are “spillin’ ” for a “clem,”
Be sure they haven’t learned to sing,
“Hey Rube”
It was the battle cry of the circus. And no war song ever called more ruthless barbarians to slaughter. Events in circus life were often dated from great “Hey Rube” encounters. All citizens were called rubes by circus people.
III: Hey Rube!
III: Hey Rube!
THERE were some people with Cameron’s Circus whom the corrosion of years could not rob of fine qualities. But the greater number were thieves, liars and embryo yeggs. Desperadoes known as “cannons,” “dips” and “guns” followed us to every town.
Women, faded, beautiful and wanton, lovers of their own kind, and men-loving men, all trekked with Cameron’s, living generally with the ethics and filth of gypsies.
Each and all of us, shrewd or stolid, traded upon the imbecilities of human nature and had comtempt for it as a result. Honor, to us, was a word in a dictionary.
A group of whining morons with the cunning of foxes were ever at our heels. They were known as “Monday men.” As the family washing was generally done on Monday, they would steal it from the line and sell it to those it might almost fit.
All about was the odor of long unbathed bodies; and clothing stiff from perspiration that had turned white like salt.
We had struck a “rainy season”—the nightmare of circus life. With insufficient heat in dripping weather, the same clothing became soaking wet and dried on our bodies. We forestalled pneumonia with rot gut whisky and lungs that pumped hard with a zest for life. For the most part we clung like animals to that which we accepted without a thought.
The high class gamblers and crooks were known as the “Bob Cameron men.” They consisted of the ticket sellers, card sharks and dice experts. They gave ten per cent. of their earnings to Cameron. He mistrusted and hated all of them. But as he paid them no salary, and they were a source of revenue, he had a thief’s toleration for his kind. They lived in a car of their own.
The “Square Johns” were the canvas men and other laborers. They were given the name with complimentary contempt because they worked hard. The vast majority of them were potential crooks whom labor and stolidity had made submissive.
The spielers worked in league with the “dips” or pickpockets.
Whenever a large group of rustics would assemble the spieler would say, “Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, we aim to run an honest show—but as you perhaps know there are thieves in high and low p
laces—and dishonest people may follow us—just as you may have dishonest people right here in your own fair city. Hence and therefore—I warn you to watch out for your pocketbooks and other valuables.”
Immediately rustic hands would feel for purses. The pickpockets would watch where the hands went, and follow after.
Slug Finnerty was the chief spieler. He had lost an eye in a brawl many years before. The empty socket was red and criss-crossed with scars. He was deeply pock-marked and stoop-shouldered. His ears had been pounded until they resembled pieces of putty clinging to his bald and cone-shaped head. An ex-bruiser of the old school, he had served five years in a southern penitentiary for a crime unspeakable. The boy was injured internally.
Slug was the money-lender and the leader of the gang of crooks. The Baby Buzzard despised him. She was the one person with courage enough to greet him with a snarl. He had once called her a “damned old bag of bones” in the presence of Cameron. The owner of the show turned white, then red, then walked away.
After this incident it was always said that Slug knew where Cameron “had buried the body.” Our meaning implied that Slug knew of a murder or other crime that Cameron had committed in some part of the world, and that Cameron was afraid he would tell.
At any rate, Slug had been with the show for many seasons. He was said to be the greatest shortchange artist in the canvas world. He robbed every citizen who did not produce the exact price for a ticket. When making change he had a habit of turning his empty socket toward the victim. It was a ghastly sight. It had the proper psychological effect upon his victim.
He had a trick of folding a bill in his hand. He would count both ends in the presence of a patron. In this manner a ten dollar bill was made into twenty dollars. Another unerring method was the “two-bit short change.” He would return change of a five dollar bill by counting “one-two-three-four” swiftly. By the time he had counted out three dollars he would say—“and four”—there you are.” The customer having heard the word “four” so often would conclude that Slug meant four dollars and pocket the change—short one dollar. Always near Slug was the “rusher”—a man who kept the patrons moving swiftly, once they had been given their change.
Slug was an adept pocket-picker. He could slug and “roll” or rob a drunkard in record time. Hence his nickname. It was all he was ever known by. He was also a past master at the manipulation of loaded dice, marked cards or the shell game. His earnings at the end of each season were on a par with Cameron’s. He was always ready to loan money at fifty per cent. interest. Cameron would always turn the employee’s money over to Slug. They divided the interest and all other profits. The two men hated each other.
Most of the borrowers of Slug’s money spent it for liquor or cocaine. As long as they owed Cameron or Finnerty money they were not “red-lighted.”
Slug was a furtive bootlegger in the dry sections. He would give the alcoholics a few drinks, and once their appetites were aroused he would then sell them more and loan them money with which to buy it.
Rosebud Bates was always in the clutches of the one-eyed Shylock. His mania for musical contraptions kept him penniless. He had joined the show in a small Colorado town in the early spring. He was a trap drummer. Decidedly effeminate, with a pink and white complexion, the strict moral gentlemen with the show at once became suspicious of Rosebud. With no evidence upon which to base the charge, they immediately called him a “fairy.” The accusation stuck. Our world was brutal, immoral, smug and conventional. We had unbounded contempt for all those who did not sin as we sinned.
Rosebud’s parents had spent a great deal of money on his musical education. He could play many musical instruments. His passion in the end became a trap drum. Finnerty called him Master Bates. At each greeting he would say, “How are you, Master Bates?” amid laughter. Bates would blush and remain quiet.
Rosebud would spend hours in imitating the whistle of a locomotive, the song of a bird, the roar of a lion, with different musical contraptions.
He was always surrounded with noise-producing instruments. One extravagance had cost him three hundred dollars. They were a set of tympanies or “kettle drums.” He had seen the instruments in a store in Dallas. So great was his passion that he borrowed the money of Slug at fifty per cent. interest.
Rosebud could juggle his drum sticks as he drummed. This was one of the features of the parade which Cameron quickly recognized.
Those who called Rosebud effeminate were correct in their judgment of him.
It was in an Oklahoma town. Our canvas roof quivered under the heat of the sun. He told me of his ailment.
“You won’t tell no one, will you?” he pleaded.
“No—I’ll not say a word,” was my reply.
He looked doubtfully at me. “You know they’d run me off the lot if they knew.”
“I know—and they’re not a damn bit better themselves—look at Finnerty—he’d be the first to slug you. But Jock would understand—you could talk to him. He’s been through hell and back agin.”
“But I won’t talk to him now,” was Rosebud’s hesitating answer. “I’ll just buy a lot more instruments and forget.” He polished a drum stick. “Playin’ a trap drum’s better than blowin’ your heart out on a wind like the clarinet, anyhow. Those poor devils in the band have to play when their mouths are all sore. I’ve seen ’em blow fever blisters right through the instruments—and all for fifteen dollars a week,” he grunted.
It was our second day in the city. Life was easier when the circus played three days in a town. Release from pitching the tent and traveling gave us a chance to rest. We looked ahead for many weeks to such three-day periods of rest.
“What causes it, Rosebud?” I asked, coming back to the one question.
He looked plaintive, with drawn face.
“I don’t know,” he answered slowly, “I’ve heard a lot of reasons. I never did like girls as far back as I can remember. Then when I got older it got worse. I used to like to nurse when I was five years old. It got so it was my mother’s way of rewarding me for being good. It never failed with her. I didn’t get any nourishment—just the sensation. Mother never understood. I didn’t either—then. And now of course I can’t tell her. She teaches Sunday School and belongs to a club in Denver.”
I became Rosebud’s friend and talked to Jock about him.
“Please don’t say a word to anyone,” I begged of Jock.
“Not me, Kid. I won’t say a word. It’s Rosie’s own business.”
Jock’s words and attitude toward Rosebud gave me more sympathy for Rosebud and helped strengthen my early tolerance for the vagaries of sex.
The Baby Buzzard was kind to Rosebud. Whether this sprang from a sense of hatred toward Finnerty or a generous impulse I could not tell.
The third day came in a drizzle of rain. Finnerty was in a sullen mood. The audience was small, which gave him less chance to short-change the patrons.
A surly oil worker claimed that Slug had shortchanged him. Slug was indignant at the charge. With persuasive tongue he apparently proved to the man that he was wrong.
After the man had gone Rosebud appeared with his drum before a small tent a short distance from where Finnerty was taking tickets. The rain had made the drum heads damp. His sticks lacked the usual bounce and slipped out of his hands several times as he tried to juggle them. Finnerty leered across at him—“Master Bates! Cut out that damned noise.”
Rosebud disappeared at once, murmuring to me, “Some day I’ll break a drum over his head.”
The rain still drizzled before the evening show.
The oil worker who had been short-changed in the afternoon now stood near Finnerty’s ticket wagon with a half-dozen other men.
Finnerty shouted with pleading voice: “Step right up, Ladies an’ Gentlemen! Here’s your tickets—the show is about to start.”
The clouds hung low and black. The rain drizzled faster. Seven other men joined the group which watched Finnerty. The short-cha
nge artist acted as unconcerned as possible. A voice louder than the rest exclaimed:
“We’ll tear down the God damn tent!”
I looked in the direction of the voice. It was that of the man who had been robbed by Finnerty of less than a dollar.
A feeling of impending trouble came over me. Rosebud joined me.
“There’s over a dozen big guys out in front,” I said to Rosebud. “It looks like they’re goin’ to rush Finnerty.”
Suddenly there was a crash. The oil workers charged Finnerty in a body.
Finnerty just had time to shout the menacing “Hey Rube!” Instantly the circus grounds were furiously alive. To distinguish themselves from the “rubes,” a few members of the circus began tying white handkerchiefs around their necks. The code was—not to strike a man with a handkerchief about his neck. The method failed to work in this fight. The men became too vicious.
Men ran in every direction. It was like the beating of tom-toms in African hill country. No longer were the circus employees prowling members of organized society. They had forgotten that Bob Cameron cheated them. Facing the common enemy every man from Cameron down picked up a “staub” or tent stake, the upper end of which was encircled with an iron band.
More than a dozen other men joined the “rubes.”
“Cut the ropes an’ drop the tent,” a “rube” yelled. The rubes thought the ropes alone held the tent. They were mistaken.
They ran with knives and slashed at the canvas sides. They cut the ropes which were tied to the stakes. Women and children screamed and fainted. Some crawled under the side-walls of the tent. The clouds lowered. The wind shifted to the west and rose in velocity. A streak of lightning jagged down the sky. A roar of thunder followed.
Finnerty’s blue ticket wagon was kicked to pieces.
Two men grabbed the money drawer and yelled, “We’ll teach ’em to rob our buddy—we will.”
Others screamed as they ran around the main tent with knives. Soon the side walls had been slashed to ribbons. The leader of the mob, a heavy and agile man, yelled above the roar of wind and rain, “Rush in there fellows an’ cut the main guy ropes—we’ll slump her in the middle—we’ll teach these crooks to rob us.”
