by Bruce, Leo
A little over half-way up the road there was the unmistakable blue splodge which represented Bogli’s fly-bill. Without any further words the whole crowd turned and started eagerly up the road.
But we had not gone more than a hundred yards towards our objective when a group of men appeared suddenly in the distance at the far end of the road. When they saw us they stopped, and formed together as if discussing something. Kurt, who had been walking in front held up his hand, and the two groups stood facing each other over a stretch of more than a quarter of a mile of road. The blue poster was roughly half-way between us. Kurt, who seemed to have taken complete charge of the affair, signaled us to move forward with him, but as we began to walk again, the opposing group did the same. We quickened our pace, until in a few minutes both groups were running at full speed towards each other. It was like running towards a mirror. Every move we made was repeated by the men at the other end of the road. In numbers we were about equal. The road was otherwise deserted, and there was little possibility of interference. I grabbed Beef by the sleeve, but he shook me impatiently off.
“Let them fight it out between themselves,” I gasped. “It’s not our fight anyway.”
But Beef was not to be deterred. The whole thing was utterly fantastic; like a scene out of a film. But I found it impossible to feel enthusiastic at taking part in a bad Western. Actually, none of them were concerned with the question of a blue or an orange poster, and there was little or no actual enmity in the whoop Ginger gave at that moment, as he pitched his paste-pot high in the air over our advancing opponents. The white paste sprayed out like a catherine-wheel, and the crowd ducked quickly, but did not stop their pace for it. The leader was a huge red-faced man wearing a béret on the back of his head. A smear of paste from his eyebrow to his mouth only increased his set, determined expression.
Like something in a nightmare, the two groups came together with an explosion of sound, and I found myself close behind Beef and in the center of a whirlpool of fists. Almost paralyzed, I watched the battle around me. “Tiny” Bolton was disdaining the blows which fell on his face and body, and seemed only concerned with his rhythmical delivery of hammer-like blows on the tops of the heads surrounding him. Beef, I was surprised to see, had already cleared a space around him with a series of scythe-like sweeps, and was grunting gently to himself as he prepared for the next comers. So far, no damage had been done and everybody drew back a little, on guard after the first rush.
At this point, for a short time, I entered the fight. A lanky individual, with sandy hair and protruding teeth, singled me out as a possible opponent and came towards me. There was no help for it now, I must fight. In my mind there seems little doubt that, had the fight continued fairly, I should most certainly have won. This is not said in any sense as a boast or to ameliorate the eventual result. But, nevertheless, it was obvious to me that he was an easy proposition. He had no science to speak of and came at me with his chin stuck out, ready to be hit. Unfortunately, at this moment, Beef got in my way. He had just taken on a new assailant and his peculiar windmill technique took little notice of obstacles. In any case, he drew his arm back a little carelessly and caught me under the chin with his elbow. I recovered some minutes later, to find myself lying at the side of the road in a very dusty condition, and decided under the circumstances to remain there.
The fight, however, continued for some time. From its subsequent figuring in all circus conversations, I gathered that it was an extremely good one. But not being an expert on such matters, and being no doubt a little prejudiced by my own early exclusion from it, it struck me as being nothing more nor less than a vulgar brawl.
Sitting fairly safely at some distance on a little heap of stones, I watched the progress. It soon became obvious that the adherents of Bogli’s Circus were having the worst time, and that certainly Sergeant Beef had little need of my help. I therefore exercised my rights as an author and ruminated on the more literary side of the affair. It struck me that it was not unlike the street brawls of the retainers of the houses of the Montagues and the Capulets in “Romeo and Juliet.” In both cases the actual fighters had little to gain by the contact, except the possibility of shed blood and bruised flesh. Some years ago a Russian production of this play had shown the two sides fraternizing before and after the conflict, and I saw now that there was something to be said for that theory. These present fighters did not dislike each other by any means. They had more in common than any of them had with the people of the surrounding villages. But both sides wanted a fight, and here it was.
One exception to this appeared to be Sid Bolton. Unlike the others, he was treating this fight as something more than a game. I watched his face from where I sat and was surprised by the ferocity and hate which was in his expression. He seemed to be always in the most active place, taking on two and sometimes more opponents at a time. I wondered if this could be explained in any way. Obviously, he had no more personal antagonism to the people he was fighting than had the rest of the men from Jacobi’s Circus. Why then this viciousness? Suddenly, I remembered what he had told me in the wagon. He had once been the “fat boy” of fairgrounds and circuses, and as he had said this I had seemed to notice a faint bitterness in his voice. My memory of such exhibitions told me that the “fat boy’s” tent was usually filled with giggling and chuckling people, who seemed to think that humanity was the last thing they were expected to see in the lad on show. That laughter must have rankled in Sid’s mind. I could imagine him hating all the human race for the laughs he received from some senseless members of it. Could that be the reason for this unexpected violence on his part? I was inclined to think it was.
But the fight, as a fight, had begun to wane a little. Beef was surrounded by the prostrate forms of three opponents, who were either unconscious, or shamming, in order to avoid getting up to face the Sergeant’s fists again. Half of the enemy had already begun to retreat the way they had come. And it probably would have fizzled out at that, had not Len Waterman and Christophe Darienne picked on the same man as a prospective partner.
“All right, Len,” said Christophe calmly, “he’s mine.”
Len’s small sturdy form seemed to bristle at that, and he attempted to elbow Christophe out of the way. But the French lad refused to be hustled.
“It would be you,” shouted Len Waterman suddenly. “Always sneaking in on me.”
Their opponent dropped his hands in bewilderment at this misdirection of energy, and stood watching the two men glaring at each other. Christophe was calm and assured, Len was excited and angry. Then Christophe reached his clenched hand out and tapped Len lightly, almost friendlily, on the shoulder, and in a moment the two men were fighting.
Everybody else stopped their own affairs immediately to crowd round and watch. A rough ring was made, and shouts of encouragement urged on one or other of the fighters.
“They’re like a lot of babies,” said Beef to me. “Like quarreling over a rattle, that’s what it is. Silly, I call it. I’m going to put a stop to it.”
And almost before he had finished speaking he was shouldering his way through the ring as only a policeman knows how.
“Here,” he said, grabbing each of them by the shoulder, “have a bit of sense. Enough’s as good as a feast.”
The two men looked at each other a little sheepishly, but Len Waterman did not look at all pleased that they had been interrupted.
“Oh, you mind your own business,” he said, and twisting himself from Beef’s grasp he walked quickly out of the ring and started off back to the tober. There was silence for a moment, and then the men started putting themselves tidy, and following Len’s example.
“And mind,” shouted Kurt as a parting shot to the remnants of the enemy. “Mind you keep your posters in your own village in future.”
The leader of the other side shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Maybe,” he said quietly.
“What did you say?” roared Kurt pugnaciously.
“M
aybe,” came the answer again.
For a moment it looked as though the fight might recommence there and then, but Pete Daroga pulled impatiently at Kurt’s sleeve.
“Come on,” he said, “we haven’t got much time to wash up before the afternoon show.” And slightly battered, the little group continued on its way back to the tober.
“Cor,” said Beef, catching up with me, “that was a Do, all right, wasn’t it?”
I thought it was probably the wrong time to tell him about his carelessness in the matter of placing blows, and so kept silent.
CHAPTER XV
April 28th (continued).
WHEN we reached the tober we discovered that it was already almost time for the afternoon performance, and Jackson was raging up and down in front of his wagon.
“Where the hell have you all been?” he demanded, as the little group came through the gate. “Hurry up and get that muck off your faces and get changed for the show. There’s only ten minutes or so to go.”
Actually, the queue had scarcely begun to form in front of the pay-box, but no one cared about pointing out his exaggeration. In the circumstances it was probably justified.
“I like that,” said Ginger, when we were out of earshot of the proprietor. “We go out and risk life and limb for the honor of his circus, and then he turns on us for being a few minutes late. Gratitude for you!”
“Don’t you kid yourself, my lad,” commented Beef. “You were out for a scrap and nothing more.”
But there was little discussion now. All the enmities were immediately forgotten, and the artists and hands alike hurried off to get ready in time for the performance.
Anita joined Beef and me as we were strolling round the ground.
“You don’t mind if I stroll with you?” she asked, and placed her hand through my arm.
“I’m still a little weak,” she said, as if in explanation. And then, as a further gesture to respectability, she gave her other arm to the Sergeant, who responded with a huge boyish smile.
“Like coming home from church,” he stated, “all quiet and respectable to a Sunday’s dinner.”
Anita laughed and squeezed my arm. I wondered if she had also squeezed Beef’s at the same time, but finding the thought a little unworthy of me I said:
“How soon do you expect to be back in the show again?”
“Only a few days now, I think,” she replied. “There was nothing very serious after all, only a flesh wound. It’s practically healed up already. It’s mostly nerves that are the matter now. I feel frightened sometimes—especially at night—and for no reason at all.”
“Frightened of who?” asked Beef.
“Of nobody. I can’t explain it really. Although sometimes the way Hel …” She paused for a moment, and then concluded quickly: “The way Helen speaks I believe she is frightened as well.”
I caught Beef’s eye over the top of the girl’s head and realized that he had found something suspicious in this statement. Anita had not noticed our exchange of glances. She was looking ahead with a preoccupied expression on her face.
“The trouble is,” I said, “you brood too much on it.”
“Oh no,” she said quickly, “it’s not that. I’m still a little upset, that’s all.” Then, hurrying on quickly, as if to prevent us returning to the subject: “You know Cora Frances is coming down to the circus tomorrow. She’s coming to stay for a week or two.”
“Not the Cora Frances?” I said in surprise. “You mean Cora Frances, the painter? The one who does those immense portraits and groups, where the people look as if they daren’t move or they’ll be shot?”
“That’s right,” Anita laughed. “She’s just ‘discovered’ the circus and she’s gone crazy about it. I told you we had all sorts of writers and artists staying with us sometimes. Now you’ll be able to meet the great Cora Frances.”
“It makes me feel a little nervous,” I admitted. “What’s she like anyway?”
“Oh, she’s rather sweet really,” said Anita. “You’ll see when she comes.” And we had to be satisfied with that.
One or two visitors, mostly children, were wandering inquisitively around the ground. The largest group were by the entrance to the Wild Animal Zoo, attempting to peer in past the canvas screen which had been drawn across the entrance. Beef and Anita and I walked slowly over towards the enclosure, and then slipping in under the canvas at the back, we surveyed the caged animals.
The only other occupants of the zoo were Ginger, who was fixing the ropes across the front of the cages, and Kurt and Ansell, who appeared to be having something of an argument.
“I said, it’s a fine time to tell anyone,” we heard Kurt shout at the animal-feeder.
Ansell shrugged his shoulders and turned away towards the cages.
“Well, go on. Get it done now,” insisted Kurt. “We can’t have the people coming in here with the tiger’s cage in a mess like that. Get some of the chavvies outside to bring the tunnel in.”
Still in silence, Ansell disappeared outside, and Kurt came over to us.
“Lazy good-for-nothing jail-bird,” he mumbled. “Can’t even be relied on to do the simplest of jobs. You have to keep your boot near his backside all the time.”
Ansell reappeared as he was saying this, pulling the lion-tunnel by the shafts and assisted by half a dozen or so children, who were pushing with a will. He dragged the tunnel over towards the tiger’s cage, maneuvring it until it was in a direct line with the door. He worked slowly, and apparently oblivious of the fact that we were watching. Kurt made no move to help, but stood beside us with his hands in his pockets. Ansell placed blocks under the wheels of the tunnel, to prevent it rolling back away from the cage. Then he opened the door of the tiger’s cage, while Ginger, crouching on top of the tunnel, held the trap, ready to drop it into position directly the tiger was in the tunnel. The tiger refused to move.
Kurt picked up a stick and walking quickly forward, rattled it across the bars of the cage as a boy does a hoop-stick on the railings. The tiger snarled, and then slowly slunk through the door into the tunnel. Ginger quickly let the trap fall into place.
“One of these days,” he commented cheerfully, as he leaped to the ground, “I shall catch his tail with that trap. Then he’ll just about blow that tunnel to pieces. It rocks every time anybody leans on it now.”
Ansell had climbed into the back of the tiger’s cage and was sweeping out the old bedding and manure. After watching him for a moment, Anita drew our attention to the other cages.
“Why do you have all those lions?” asked Beef, when we were opposite the three-partioned lions’ cage.
“Those two,” said Anita pointing, “are only half-grown. George is still training them. He wants to use them for a mixed turn later, if we can get hold of some wolves and bears. Then these three are the three you see in the ring every day. A lion and two lionesses. And this other chap,” Anita moved alone to the last cage. “Well, I don’t quite know what he’s doing here at all. We picked him up cheap some time ago, and George started training him, but then the cubs came and so George started working on them and rather neglected this fellow. What are you going to do with him, George?” she called out to Kurt, who was at the far side of the enclosure.
“I don’t know,” answered the lion-tamer. “Hadn’t really thought much about it, to tell you the truth. I might give it to the Sergeant as a Christmas present.”
Beef chuckled. “Wouldn’t half give the missus a shock if I walked home with that on a lead,” he said. “Why she created bad enough when I brought a little dog home once, when we was first married. Wouldn’t have no beasts about the house, she said. Bad enough having me, I suppose.” And Beef gave vent to one of his hurricane-like laughs.
As if in reaction from the sudden noise, Anita gripped hard on my arm.
“Look,” she said, almost inaudibly. As she spoke there was a sudden crash as the tiger’s cage-door was slammed, and I looked up in time to see the scared white face o
f Ansell behind the bars. At the same moment the lion-tunnel gave a slight lurch and rolled a yard or more into the center of the enclosure. There was a sudden yell from Ginger, and the striped form of the tiger slipped down between the cage and the tunnel and crouched on the ground beneath the axle.
Then I had a sudden mixed and confused impression of many things happening at once. Anita’s hold tightened on my arm and I drew her behind me with some vague and heroic idea of protecting her; Kurt shouted, and Beef said the one word, “Cor.”
The tiger crept forward until it lay just under the tail-board of the tunnel, looking out at us. Its tail was waving slowly from side to side, and twitching jerkily at the tip, like a bad-tempered household cat.
“Keep still, everybody,” said Kurt calmly. “Keep perfectly still.” And then, looking up at the animal-feeder in the cage, he said quickly: “Come out of that cage, Ansell. And leave the door open.
Peter Ansell showed his teeth in a frightened grin. “Not on your sweet life,” he said. “I’m safe behind these bars, and here I’m going to stay.”
“Come out of it, you blasted fool,” roared Kurt in sudden anger. “Get out the back way and be quick about it.”
These words seemed to have their effect upon the man, for he slowly opened the front door of the cage, and then retreated quickly backwards and disappeared through the door at the rear. Kurt waited a moment, and then took two paces towards the crouching tiger.
“Up,” he said harshly, and pointed with his outstretched arm to the open door of the cage. The tiger snarled, turning its head sideways in a worried, irritated way. For a moment the two stood there, almost statuesque. There seemed to be no sound or movement anywhere, and I had become completely oblivious of everything but that grim set-piece in front of me. Kurt, coatless and without any means of defense should the animal spring, and the tiger hesitating, a low growling snarl coming from between its open jaws.
Then it turned its eyes away from the man standing over it and carefully, almost contemptuously, began to lick one of its fore-paws. Kurt stood silent and motionless. And then, at last, the tiger moved. Almost casually, it rose from under the tunnel, hesitated, looking once more at the lion-trainer, and then leaped lightly through the open door of the cage.
