“GEN-til-mun and LAY-deeze,” shouted Penrod, “I will first call your at-tain-shon to our genuine South American dog, part alligator!” He pointed to the dachshund, and added, in his ordinary tone, “That’s him.” Straightway reassuming the character of showman, he bellowed: “NEXT, you see Duke, the genuine, full-blooded Indian dog from the far Western Plains and Rocky Mountains. NEXT, the trained Michigan rats, captured way up there, and trained to jump and run all around the box at the — at the — at the slightest PRE-text!” He paused, partly to take breath and partly to enjoy his own surprised discovery that this phrase was in his vocabulary.
“At the slightest PRE-text!” he repeated, and continued, suiting the action to the word: “I will now hammer upon the box and each and all may see these genuine full-blooded Michigan rats perform at the slightest PRE-text! There! (That’s all they do now, but I and Sam are goin’ to train ’em lots more before this afternoon.) GEN-til-mun and LAY-deeze I will kindly now call your at-tain-shon to Sherman, the wild animal from Africa, costing the lives of the wild trapper and many of his companions. NEXT, let me kindly interodoos Herman and Verman. Their father got mad and stuck his pitchfork right inside of another man, exactly as promised upon the advertisements outside the big tent, and got put in jail. Look at them well, gen-til-mun and lay-deeze, there is no extra charge, and RE-MEM-BUR you are each and all now looking at two wild, tattooed men which the father of is in jail. Point, Herman. Each and all will have a chance to see. Point to sumpthing else, Herman. This is the only genuine one-fingered tattooed wild man. Last on the programme, gen-til-mun and lay-deeze, we have Verman, the savage tattooed wild boy, that can’t speak only his native foreign languages. Talk some, Verman.”
Verman obliged and made an instantaneous hit. He was encored rapturously, again and again; and, thrilling with the unique pleasure of being appreciated and misunderstood at the same time, would have talked all day but too gladly. Sam Williams, however, with a true showman’s foresight, whispered to Penrod, who rang down on the monologue.
“GEN-til-mun and LAY-deeze, this closes our pufformance. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. As soon as you are all out there’s goin’ to be a new pufformance, and each and all are welcome at the same and simple price of admission. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. RE-MEM-BUR the price is only one cent, the tenth part of a dime, or twenty pins, no bent ones taken. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. The Schofield and Williams Military Band will play before each pufformance, and each and all are welcome for the same and simple price of admission. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible.”
Forthwith, the Schofield and Williams Military Band began a second overture, in which something vaguely like a tune was at times distinguishable; and all of the first audience returned, most of them having occupied the interval in hasty excursions for more pins; Miss Rennsdale and governess, however, again paying coin of the Republic and receiving deference and the best seats accordingly. And when a third performance found all of the same inveterate patrons once more crowding the auditorium, and seven recruits added, the pleasurable excitement of the partners in their venture will be understood by any one who has seen a metropolitan manager strolling about the foyer of his theatre some evening during the earlier stages of an assured “phenomenal run.”
From the first, there was no question which feature of the entertainment was the attraction extraordinary: Verman — Verman, the savage tattooed wild boy, speaking only his native foreign languages — Verman was a triumph! Beaming, wreathed in smiles, melodious, incredibly fluent, he had but to open his lips and a dead hush fell upon the audience. Breathless, they leaned forward, hanging upon his every semi-syllable, and, when Penrod checked the flow, burst into thunders of applause, which Verman received with happy laughter.
Alas! he delayed not o’er long to display all the egregiousness of a new star; but for a time there was no caprice of his too eccentric to be forgiven. During Penrod’s lecture upon the other curios, the tattooed wild boy continually stamped his foot, grinned, and gesticulated, tapping his tiny chest, and pointing to himself as it were to say: “Wait for Me! I am the Big Show.” So soon they learn; so soon they learn! And (again alas!) this spoiled darling of public favour, like many another, was fated to know, in good time, the fickleness of that favour.
But during all the morning performances he was the idol of his audience and looked it! The climax of his popularity came during the fifth overture of the Schofield and Williams Military Band, when the music was quite drowned in the agitated clamours of Miss Rennsdale, who was endeavouring to ascend the stairs in spite of the physical dissuasion of her governess.
“I WON’T go home to lunch!” screamed Miss Rennsdale, her voice accompanied by a sound of ripping. “I WILL hear the tattooed wild boy talk some more! It’s lovely — I WILL hear him talk! I WILL! I WILL! I want to listen to Verman — I WANT to — I WANT to — —”
Wailing, she was borne away — of her sex not the first to be fascinated by obscurity, nor the last to champion its eloquence.
Verman was almost unendurable after this, but, like many, many other managers, Schofield and Williams restrained their choler, and even laughed fulsomely when their principal attraction essayed the role of a comedian in private, and capered and squawked in sheer, fatuous vanity.
The first performance of the afternoon rivalled the successes of the morning, and although Miss Rennsdale was detained at home, thus drying up the single source of cash income developed before lunch, Maurice Levy appeared, escorting Marjorie Jones, and paid coin for two admissions, dropping the money into Sam’s hand with a careless — nay, a contemptuous — gesture. At sight of Marjorie, Penrod Schofield flushed under his new moustache (repainted since noon) and lectured as he had never lectured before. A new grace invested his every gesture; a new sonorousness rang in his voice; a simple and manly pomposity marked his very walk as he passed from curio to curio. And when he fearlessly handled the box of rats and hammered upon it with cool insouciance, he beheld — for the first time in his life — a purl of admiration eddying in Marjorie’s lovely eye, a certain softening of that eye. And then Verman spake and Penrod was forgotten. Marjorie’s eye rested upon him no more.
A heavily equipped chauffeur ascended the stairway, bearing the message that Mrs. Levy awaited her son and his lady. Thereupon, having devoured the last sound permitted (by the managers) to issue from Verman, Mr. Levy and Miss Jones departed to a real matinee at a real theatre, the limpid eyes of Marjorie looking back softly over her shoulder — but only at the tattooed wild boy. Nearly always it is woman who puts the irony into life.
After this, perhaps because of sated curiosity, perhaps on account of a pin famine, the attendance began to languish. Only four responded to the next call of the band; the four dwindled to three; finally the entertainment was given for one blase auditor, and Schofield and Williams looked depressed. Then followed an interval when the band played in vain.
About three o’clock Schofield and Williams were gloomily discussing various unpromising devices for startling the public into a renewal of interest, when another patron unexpectedly appeared and paid a cent for his admission. News of the Big Show and Museum of Curiosities had at last penetrated the far, cold spaces of interstellar niceness, for this new patron consisted of no less than Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, escaped in a white “sailor suit” from the Manor during a period of severe maternal and tutorial preoccupation.
He seated himself without parley, and the pufformance was offered for his entertainment with admirable conscientiousness. True to the Lady Clara caste and training, Roderick’s pale, fat face expressed nothing except an impervious superiority and, as he sat, cold and unimpressed upon the front bench, like a large, white lump, it must be said that he made a discouraging audience “to play to.” He was not, however, unresponsive — far from it. He offered comment very chilling to the warm grandiloquence of the orator.
“That’s my uncle Ethelbert’s dachshund,” he remarked, at the beginning of the lecture. “You better take him back if you don’t want to get arrested.” And when Penrod, rather uneasily ignoring the interruption, proceeded to the exploitation of the genuine, full-blooded Indian dog, Duke, “Why don’t you try to give that old dog away?” asked Roderick. “You couldn’t sell him.”
“My papa would buy me a lots better ‘coon than that,” was the information volunteered a little later, “only I wouldn’t want the nasty old thing.”
Herman of the missing finger obtained no greater indulgence. “Pooh!” said Roderick. “We have two fox-terriers in our stables that took prizes at the kennel show, and their tails were BIT off. There’s a man that always bites fox-terriers’ tails off.”
“Oh, my gosh, what a lie!” exclaimed Sam Williams ignorantly.
“Go on with the show whether he likes it or not, Penrod. He’s paid his money.”
Verman, confident in his own singular powers, chuckled openly at the failure of the other attractions to charm the frosty visitor, and, when his turn came, poured forth a torrent of conversation which was straightway damned.
“Rotten,” said Mr. Bitts languidly. “Anybody could talk like that. I could do it if I wanted to.”
Verman paused suddenly.
“YES, you could!” exclaimed Penrod, stung. “Let’s hear you do it, then.”
“Yessir!” the other partner shouted. “Let’s just hear you DO it!”
“I said I could if I wanted to,” responded Roderick. “I didn’t say I WOULD.”
“Yay! Knows he can’t!” sneered Sam.
“I can, too, if I try.”
“Well, let’s hear you try!”
So challenged, the visitor did try, but, in the absence of an impartial jury, his effort was considered so pronounced a failure that he was howled down, derided, and mocked with great clamours.
“Anyway,” said Roderick, when things had quieted down, “if I couldn’t get up a better show than this I’d sell out and leave town.”
Not having enough presence of mind to inquire what he would sell out, his adversaries replied with mere formless yells of scorn.
“I could get up a better show than this with my left hand,” Roderick asserted.
“Well, what would you have in your ole show?” asked Penrod, condescending to language.
“That’s all right, what I’d HAVE. I’d have enough!”
“You couldn’t get Herman and Verman in your ole show.”
“No, and I wouldn’t want ’em, either!”
“Well, what WOULD you have?” insisted Penrod derisively. “You’d have to have SUMPTHING — you couldn’t be a show yourself!”
“How do YOU know?” This was but meandering while waiting for ideas, and evoked another yell.
“You think you could be a show all by yourself?” demanded Penrod.
“How do YOU know I couldn’t?”
Two white boys and two black boys shrieked their scorn of the boaster.
“I could, too!” Roderick raised his voice to a sudden howl, obtaining a hearing.
“Well, why don’t you tell us how?”
“Well, I know HOW, all right,” said Roderick. “If anybody asks you, you can just tell him I know HOW, all right.”
“Why, you can’t DO anything,” Sam began argumentatively. “You talk about being a show all by yourself; what could you try to do? Show us sumpthing you can do.”
“I didn’t say I was going to DO anything,” returned the badgered one, still evading.
“Well, then, how’d you BE a show?” Penrod demanded. “WE got a show here, even if Herman didn’t point or Verman didn’t talk. Their father stabbed a man with a pitchfork, I guess, didn’t he?”
“How do I know?”
“Well, I guess he’s in jail, ain’t he?”
“Well, what if their father is in jail? I didn’t say he wasn’t, did I?”
“Well, YOUR father ain’t in jail, is he?”
“Well, I never said he was, did I?”
“Well, then,” continued Penrod, “how could you be a — —” He stopped abruptly, staring at Roderick, the birth of an idea plainly visible in his altered expression. He had suddenly remembered his intention to ask Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, about Rena Magsworth, and this recollection collided in his mind with the irritation produced by Roderick’s claiming some mysterious attainment which would warrant his setting up as a show in his single person. Penrod’s whole manner changed instantly.
“Roddy,” he asked, almost overwhelmed by a prescience of something vast and magnificent, “Roddy, are you any relation of Rena Magsworth?”
Roderick had never heard of Rena Magsworth, although a concentration of the sentence yesterday pronounced upon her had burned, black and horrific, upon the face of every newspaper in the country. He was not allowed to read the journals of the day and his family’s indignation over the sacrilegious coincidence of the name had not been expressed in his presence. But he saw that it was an awesome name to Penrod Schofield and Samuel Williams. Even Herman and Verman, though lacking many educational advantages on account of a long residence in the country, were informed on the subject of Rena Magsworth through hearsay, and they joined in the portentous silence.
“Roddy,” repeated Penrod, “honest, is Rena Magsworth some relation of yours?”
There is no obsession more dangerous to its victims than a conviction especially an inherited one — of superiority: this world is so full of Missourians. And from his earliest years Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, had been trained to believe in the importance of the Magsworth family. At every meal he absorbed a sense of Magsworth greatness, and yet, in his infrequent meetings with persons of his own age and sex, he was treated as negligible. Now, dimly, he perceived that there was a Magsworth claim of some sort which was impressive, even to boys. Magsworth blood was the essential of all true distinction in the world, he knew. Consequently, having been driven into a cul-de-sac, as a result of flagrant and unfounded boasting, he was ready to take advantage of what appeared to be a triumphal way out.
“Roddy,” said Penrod again, with solemnity, “is Rena Magsworth some relation of yours?”
“IS she, Roddy?” asked Sam, almost hoarsely.
“She’s my aunt!” shouted Roddy.
Silence followed. Sam and Penrod, spellbound, gazed upon Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior. So did Herman and Verman. Roddy’s staggering lie had changed the face of things utterly. No one questioned it; no one realized that it was much too good to be true.
“Roddy,” said Penrod, in a voice tremulous with hope, “Roddy, will you join our show?”
Roddy joined.
Even he could see that the offer implied his being starred as the paramount attraction of a new order of things. It was obvious that he had swelled out suddenly, in the estimation of the other boys, to that importance which he had been taught to believe his native gift and natural right. The sensation was pleasant. He had often been treated with effusion by grown-up callers and by acquaintances of his mothers and sisters; he had heard ladies speak of him as “charming” and “that delightful child,” and little girls had sometimes shown him deference, but until this moment no boy had ever allowed him, for one moment, to presume even to equality. Now, in a trice, he was not only admitted to comradeship, but patently valued as something rare and sacred to be acclaimed and pedestalled. In fact, the very first thing that Schofield and Williams did was to find a box for him to stand upon.
The misgivings roused in Roderick’s bosom by the subsequent activities of the firm were not bothersome enough to make him forego his prominence as Exhibit A. He was not a “quick-minded” boy, and it was long (and much happened) before he thoroughly comprehended the causes of his new celebrity. He had a shadowy feeling that if the affair came to be heard of at home it might not be liked, but, intoxicated by the glamour and bustle which surround a public character, he made no protest. On the contrary, he
entered whole-heartedly into the preparations for the new show. Assuming, with Sam’s assistance, a blue moustache and “side-burns,” he helped in the painting of a new poster, which, supplanting the old one on the wall of the stable facing the cross-street, screamed bloody murder at the passers in that rather populous thoroughfare.
SCHoFiELD & WiLLiAMS NEW BIG SHoW RoDERiCK MAGSWoRTH BiTTS JR ONLY LiViNG NEPHEW oF RENA MAGSWORTH THE FAMOS MUDERESS GoiNG To BE HUNG NEXT JULY KiLED EiGHT PEOPLE PUT ARSiNECK iN THiER MiLK ALSO SHERMAN HERMAN AND VERMAN THE MiCHiGAN RATS DOG PART ALLiGATOR DUKE THE GENUiNE InDiAN DoG ADMISSioN 1 CENT oR 20 PINS SAME AS BEFORE Do NoT MISS THIS CHANSE TO SEE RoDERICK ONLY LiViNG NEPHEW oF RENA MAGSWORTH THE GREAT FAMOS MUDERESS GoiNG To BE HUNG
CHAPTER XVII RETIRING FROM THE SHOW BUSINESS
MEGAPHONES WERE CONSTRUCTED out of heavy wrapping-paper, and Penrod, Sam, and Herman set out in different directions, delivering vocally the inflammatory proclamation of the poster to a large section of the residential quarter, and leaving Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, with Verman in the loft, shielded from all deadhead eyes. Upon the return of the heralds, the Schofield and Williams Military Band played deafeningly, and an awakened public once more thronged to fill the coffers of the firm.
Prosperity smiled again. The very first audience after the acquisition of Roderick was larger than the largest of the morning. Master Bitts — the only exhibit placed upon a box — was a supercurio. All eyes fastened upon him and remained, hungrily feasting, throughout Penrod’s luminous oration.
But the glory of one light must ever be the dimming of another. We dwell in a vale of seesaws — and cobwebs spin fastest upon laurel. Verman, the tattooed wild boy, speaking only in his native foreign languages, Verman the gay, Verman the caperer, capered no more; he chuckled no more, he beckoned no more, nor tapped his chest, nor wreathed his idolatrous face in smiles. Gone, all gone, were his little artifices for attracting the general attention to himself; gone was every engaging mannerism which had endeared him to the mercurial public. He squatted against the wall and glowered at the new sensation. It was the old story — the old, old story of too much temperament: Verman was suffering from artistic jealousy.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 148
