by Jim Tully
Jock worked horses and men with driving energy. An eight-horse team traveled up and down by the side of the road, with a heavy snake chain dragging behind. This was used in pulling wagons out of the mud.
We reached Atlanta at daylight. Within an hour the sun shone over the city. It pierced red through the hazy weather.
On our way to the circus grounds I noticed that the Southern Carnival Company was in Atlanta.
The blonde stake-driver threw a spasm in the cook tent. His hands and knees went together, his eyes stared more rigidly to the left, he jumped high in the air, and fell on the ground as stiff as an iron bar.
We laid him out on a water-soaked bunk.
Silver Moon Dugan, the boss canvasman, mumbled, “A hell of a time to throw a fit, jist when the tent’s goin’ up.” He was short of men as usual. I helped put up the tent.
With the hope of breaking the monotony by attending the carnival, I asked Jock if I might not play sick that day and join him after the night performance.
He said, “Sure, go ahead. It’s too wet to parade anyhow. I’ll fix it up.”
Jock gave me a silver dollar. I took Jeremiah with me.
We walked slowly along until we came to a small butcher shop where I bought some meat for the dog. I was glad to be away from the blonde man, and Jeremiah would look up at me as if he were trying to express the same emotion. With no immediate worry save that of obtaining food, I loitered about Atlanta with Jeremiah until mid-afternoon.
My mind was on the Southern Carnival Company. All such aggregations worked a shell game through the South. I had learned many things from Slug Finnerty’s crew. Accordingly I sauntered through one alley after another with Jeremiah in the hope of finding rubber out of which to fashion a pea.
After a long search I came upon an old-fashioned clothes-wringer. As no one was about I soon removed one of the rubber rollers and carved a chunk from it. After much shaping and polishing I made it resemble a pea turned dark from handling. When finished, I threw the rest of the roller on the ground. Jeremiah immediately picked it up and started carrying it with him. I bade him drop the possible circumstantial evidence and inquired my way toward the carnival.
Everything was in full blast when I arrived with Jeremiah and hunted up the shell game. A crowd had gathered.
I was attracted by the man who ran it. He stood perspiring under the hot sun. I leaned down and talked to Jeremiah, pointing to the ground at my feet, with the hope of making him understand I wanted him to stay close to me. He remained so close that I could touch him with my foot at any time. The operator of the shell game was jubilant.
“Here you are, folks. If you guess right, you win. That’s all life is, folks, just a guess, folks—a question of guessing right. Three simple shells—under which shell is the pea, folks?” he kept saying as he rubbed his hands together.
He was shaved close. His jaw was steely blue with a streak of red across it, as if a razor had made a furrow that healed over, leaving a dent in the middle. The scar seemed to open and close as he talked, as though contradicting what his lips were saying. I looked about to spot the shillabers, his accomplices. There were several within a dozen feet of him.
All about them were vari-colored rustics. The whites were burned red by the sun and the blacks could no blacker be. The latter were dressed in fantastic colors, like barbaric children from another world.
Assuming as much innocence as possible, I looked about in a scared manner. I needed someone to furnish the money. A young Negro stood close to me. The eyes of a born gambler danced in his head. Suddenly I heard the man with the scar across his jaw talk out of the corner of his mouth to a shillaber standing behind me, “Ushpay the pumchay oser-clay.” People in a canvas and semi-gypsy world have a language of their own. They shift a word about and always put “ay” at the end of it. In this manner they can carry on a conversation that no one else can understand. The sentence translated was “Push the chump up closer.” There was a sudden movement from behind. I looked more scared than ever, as I talked to the young Negro near me.
Being shoved closer, I looked at the swiftly moving hands of the man with the scar on his jaw. They were long and well kept, except for the nail on the little finger of his right hand. It extended about half an inch.
His shirt sleeves were rolled above his black alpaca coat. Money of all denominations lay near his left hand. He handled it with indifference. “Just a mere guess, folks, a mere guess, that’s all.” He looked at me benevolently. I leaned down and patted Jeremiah who huddled between my legs for protection.
“You merely guess, folks, under which of the three shells the little black pea is hidden. If you guess right, I pay. Nothing intricate at all.”
I watched him closely. He pretended to hide the pea awkwardly. Sometimes it even held up one side of the shell under which it was supposed to be hidden. He would give the shell a little push as if he had just discovered his error.
The play was slow at first. The operator offered ten to five, then twenty to a hundred and so on, alternating, “Come, gentlemen, locate the pea,” he would say as he counted out the money. “Two dollars to one. But why not win more? Your money never grows in your pants pockets.”
A large Negro laid down five dollars. His smile was forced and the look in his eye was too quick. I knew he was a shillaber. He turned a shell. The pea was not under it.
“Even money on the other two shells,” declared the man. “I’ll try it once for five,” volunteered a young white shillaber who were a derby. He laid the five dollar bill down and flipped a shell over. There lay the pea. The man with the scar laughed as he paid out ten dollars.
“That’s the way it goes, gentlemen. Lay down five and pick up ten. One man’s loss is another man’s gain. Try it once more there, colored boy,” to the first player. He shifted the shells and the pea.
“I’ll try it once moah if you all let my frien’ heah pick it foh me,” he suggested, at the same time pushing a chocolate-colored brother in front of him.
“I don’t care who picks it, gentlemen, as long as you gamble fair and square,” said the man.
The big colored fellow laid down another five dollar bill and turned to the other. “You go on an’ pick it foh me. You looks lucky to me, boy.” The latter grinned proudly and looked closely at the shells.
Several other Negroes told their comrade which shell the pea was under. The operator seemed engrossed in other matters as the Negro raised the shell and disclosed the pea. He then counted out the winnings and began to hand them to the little chocolate-colored man. The big Negro pointed out the operator’s mistake and claimed the money.
“My mistake, gentleman, my mistake,” laughed the operator.
The big Negro said, “But you’d all of paid him he won, huh?”
“Certainly, gentlemen, certainly, whoever wins. It’s merely the love of the play that keeps me here. I enjoy it as much as you, folks. I could easily, gentlemen, follow any other calling, but here is my life work, gentlemen, just the joy of taking a chance. A gambler at heart, gentlemen, a square shooter, a fair deal, gentlemen, and no favors. I paid one man five hundred last week. The turn of a shell, gentlemen, the turn of a simple shell, and a fortune underneath. The wealth of Minus, gentlemen, the wealth of Minus.” He looked down at me. “If any other gentlemen had put their money down they would have won also.”
The big colored shillaber began talking to the little man who had chosen for him. “Come, boy, you is lucky. I’ll put five dollahs down and you puts five dollahs, then we both win. Come on, you otheh colohed boys.” Several of them watched the studied clumsiness of the operator and pulled money out of purses with twist clasps—money earned under a burning sun.
All the Negroes won, and doubled their bets. They won again and tripled. Then all lost.
I watched the operator’s long fingernail sweep under the shell with the action of a scythe.
The colored youth next to me stood fascinated. He smiled confidently at me and I saw my
chance.
“Listen, kid,” I whispered to him, “I can beat that game. If you’ll let me have ten to play, I’ll get you twenty back. I know the riffle. We’ll make a getaway and I’ll meet you at the Salvation Army Hotel on Peachtree Street.”
The big colored shillaber stood within five feet of us, so I whispered even lower. “Now if I play and win and yell, ‘Go,’ you’ve got to run like the devil away from Holy Water. Hear me?” The little Negro nodded, still smiling. The operator was saying, “As wealthy as Minus, gentlemen, as wealthy as Minus. Rockyfeller took a chance, everybody does. Which of the simple little shells is the pea under, gentlemen?”
A shillaber moved closer and placed ten dollars on the board. Then as luck would have it, he turned to the colored lad near me. “You pick it out for me this time, boy.” The little fellow picked the middle shell—and—there was the pea.
He smiled more confidently at me.
Another shillaber edged closer in friendly conversation with a sun-tanned yokel. “We’ll show you where we’re from. We’ll pick out the right shell so often you’ll think there’s a pea under every darn one o’ them,” laughed the shillaber. The yokel laid down five dollars. The shillaber likewise. They won twice, then lost. The yokel had not hesitated, but he lost anyhow.
Another shillaber, with an Italian who looked like like a peddler, had some difficulty in getting close to the board. The operator said quietly—“Etlay ethay ogaday uckerslay up otay ethay cardbay.” (“Let the dago sucker up to the board.”) The way cleared for him at once.
I coaxed the young Negro to take a chance with me. At last he could stand the contagion of the play no longer. “Heah, white boy, you beats it if you all kin,” he said, slipping me a ten dollar bill.
I touched Jeremiah with my foot, and pushed closer to the board, the Negro close to me.
“I’ll bet ten, Mister, if you’ll let me pick up the shell,” I said innocently.
“Certainly, my boy, certainly, most assuredly. It merely saves me the labor of raising a simple shell. A straight and fair game, gentlemen, and you can raise any shell you wish. Merely a game of wits—guess work. He who guesses the best always wins in this and other games of life.”
The Italian played ahead of me, also the suntanned yokel and others. Their bets ranged from one to ten dollars. Money went back and forth, the operator and his shillabers working fast. The shillabers asked questions, the operator talked swiftly and moved his hands nervously, thus keeping up the tension of the play.
He suddenly beamed at me. “If you still wish to pick your own shell up, my lad, that privilege is yours. You look like a brave gambler to me. You love the game as I do. So it’s as you will, my boy, as you will. I believe in giving the young a chance. I was young once myself away back yonder,” he chortled, placing a ten dollar bill between the first and second finger.
I laid the Negro’s money on the board. The operator placed it between his fingers.
“The left shell,” I said and raised it, handing him the pea I had carved in the alley. “Here it is, Mister. I win.”
The operator looked startled. The scar on his face turned redder. His own pea was lodged in his long finger nail. Before he recovered I took the money from between his fingers and dodged low and was gone. Jeremiah was well ahead of me.
Looking back I saw the shillaber with the derby hat make a grab for my colored friend. I was soon lost in the crowd.
I hurried off the lot, the two ten-dollar bills in my hand. Realizing after some distance that no one was pursuing me, I thought of the tough spot in which I had left the lad who had loaned me the ten dollars.
“Oh well,” I said to myself, “they can’t do anything with him—maybe beat him up a little, that’s all.”
Then the thought came that they might do anything with a Negro in Atlanta.
So thinking I reached the Salvation Army Hotel on Peachtree Street.
Sitting in a pine chair was my colored friend.
“What all took you so long?” he asked, as I handed him a ten dollar bill.
His eyes went as big as eggs.
“Ge-mun-ently—this all I git?” he asked.
“Sure Boy, look at all the fun you had. You’re lucky to get your ten back. I took all the chances. Suppose I hadn’t showed up at all.”
“Gee, that’s right,” he said as I left with Jeremiah.
Jock smiled happily when I told him of the incident that night.
XII: Whiteface
XII: Whiteface
WITHIN three weeks Cameron’s World’s Greatest Combined Shows were so badly crippled on account of many desertions that the tents were raised in each town with great difficulty.
It is the custom with the wanderers of circus life to leave without notice, and often without money. Routes of other circuses are studied carefully in theatrical papers, so that many “jump the show” and join one in the same vicinity. They will often travel many hundreds of miles until they come to another circus appearing in the same city.
Barnum and Bailey’s show was pitched for two days in Forth Worth, Texas, when we arrived. Four clowns, three musicians and one freak deserted in a body.
Whiteface was made a professional clown by accident.
Somewhere his ancestors must have made forgotten kings to laugh. He had been a stake-driver a short time before. There was a vast difference in swinging an eight-pound sledge and being a kinker. For the kinkers are the performers, the aristocrats of the circus world.
He was a natural clown. People laughed at everything he did. Where he came from no one knew. His features were aquiline. There were traces of Ethiopian, Caucasian and Indian in him. But in the South he was just another Negro.
There was an eagle-like expression about his mouth and nose. In his eyes was the meek look of a dove. His teeth were as even as little old-fashioned tombstones in a row. He gave one the impression of power gone to seed, of a ruined cannon rusting in the sun, or a condor with broken wings.
He was one of those people in the subterranean valley who somehow managed to grow and give something to a world that had no thought of him. Under the make-up of a clown his sombre expression left him. He pushed his magnificent yellow body around the ring in a tawdry fool’s-parade. He did not walk, he shambled. Over his yellow face was the white paint of the clown. He was, in the language of the circus, a whiteface.
His start had not been conspicuous. Four clowns had deserted. Something had happened to another performer. Whiteface had been helping tear down some aerial rigging, and to save a delay he had been asked to do a dance. All the kinkers or performers smiled as he consented. The audience would laugh at his attempt at dancing, and the aim was to somehow make the audience laugh.
Then something happened. The huge Negro, with the flat coarse shoes lined with brass in front, ambled on the platform like a man with no bones in his legs. He resembled an immense dummy held up with wire and allowed to sag in the middle. He looked about him helplessly. And then suddenly listened, as though for a firing-squad. Then held out his long left arm as if wanting to say a last word with the gunners. It was a stroke of uncouth genius. The terrific effect of it stunned even the ringmaster. There was that tremendous silence one feels only before an execution. Then the great heavy feet began to move.
They patted the wooden stage with the noise of a giant’s hands being clapped together. The boneless body moved as if dancing to the roar of the elements. Then suddenly it stopped. He held out his hand for a second as before and ambled from the stage with the same tempo he had used in closing the dance. The applause went around the tent in mighty waves. He was forced back on the platform again.
There was a heavy silence. The heavy feet shook for a second and a heavier wave of appreciation rolled around the tent. Then the immense hand went out like a yellow talon outspread. It had the effect of a firing-squad again. In another second he had ambled from the platform.
Immediately he was prevailed upon to become a clown. He took the job with the same unc
oncern that he had taken that of stake-driving. He assembled his regalia and rehearsed by himself. He would inflict none of his three colors on the pure white strain of his brother clowns. But in justice to them, they were nearly all artists at heart and drew no color line.
Sufficient to himself as a stake-driver, he remained the same as a clown.
On the third night there wandered on the hippodrome track one of the weirdest of grotesqueries. The pathos and the laughter, the tragedy and the misery of life were stamped on its eagle face. And out of its eyes shone laughing pity.
People with the circus thought it was Jimmy Arkley putting on a new number. Jimmy was the boss clown and liked to do the unexpected. But Jimmy Arkley was standing on the sidelines himself. In his eyes were blended jealousy and admiration. For, bowing to right and left, was a master buffoon all unknowing.
He was using an old artifice to make his audience laugh, that of dignity being made ludicrous and still wrapping the remnants of dignity about itself. He was dressed as a king, with wide fatuous mouth and little shoe-button eyes. His crown was formed from a battered dish-pan and his sceptre was a brass curtain pole. A royal robe, trimmed with raw cotton, dragged on the ground behind him. The robe was so long that his scurvy pet alley-cat used it as a vehicle upon which to ride. Time after time the king would fall out of character long enough to chase the cat from the robe. But as soon as he continued his royal promenade the cat would get on the robe again. In his confusion the king would stumble over an imaginary obstacle.
After regaining his balance he was all dignity again. It was tragic to have so many unforeseen things happen just at the time he was showing himself to his subjects. But the more he suffered the more his subjects laughed.
When he had made his sad round of the hippodrome track and the curtains of the back entrance hid him from view, he took the scurvy alley-cat in his arms and said:
