CHAPTER II.
THE CIRCUS AT HIGHLAND FALLS.
Drills were over for that day, and likewise dinner, and the corps had been dismissed, excepting members who had extra tours of guard duty to do by way of punishment. This included one of the Seven, the unfortunate granger from Kansas, “Sleepy,” who had forgotten to invert his washbowl at the “A. M. inspection.”
Poor Sleepy was obliged to shoulder his musket with what grace he could and sadly watch his friends vanish in the woods.
The wicked drummer boy, who was getting rich nowadays by furnishing contraband disguises for the yet more wicked Banded Seven, had designated a place where he would hide the “duds,” and for that place the six made with all possible speed. Some hour or so later there were three curious-looking couples strolling down the road to the Falls.
The drum orderly, with considerable appropriateness, had furnished a full dress evening suit for Chauncey. It being afternoon, Chauncey had indignantly refused to “dream” of wearing it, and so the meek Indian had had his fat limbs crowded into the costume. Texas had a flaming red sweater and huge farmer’s trousers with one suspender. Mark had the tattered remains of a tennis blazer and checkerboard “pants.” The Parson was muttering anathemas at the facetious lad who had gotten, from somewhere, a clerical costume with a rip up the back, and Dewey was handsome and resplendent in one of the drum orderly’s own cast-off uniforms. Poor Chauncey having refused the swallow-tails, was doomed to be commonplace in a white flannel costume last worn by a coal heaver.
Do you wonder at the phrase “curious-looking couples” used above?
It had been agreed that they would excite less suspicion two by two. All in a crowd they might be mistaken for the rear guard of the circus procession, which they could tell from the sound of the band had proceeded them down the main street of Highland Falls. The six set out swiftly in pursuit.
Texas was fairly boiling over with anxiety to catch a glimpse of Smasher. Texas had done nothing but talk about Smasher since he started.
If there had chanced to be any officers from the post down there they would probably have recognized their cadets, in spite of false mustaches and hair. For the plebes were so used to going behind a band by this time that the tune—“The Girl I Left Behind Me”—set them all to marching with West Point precision—“left, left! Eyes to the front—heads up—chest out, little fingers on the seams of the trousers—left, left!”
Fortunately, however, nobody noticed their rather unusual style, and down at the far end of the long and narrow town they came upon the circus grounds. No small boy enjoying his holiday from school was gazing upon the scene with more interest than our plebes.
There were three big tents in a vacant lot. The band had gone inside by that time, and a string of people were following, buying their tickets of a black and long-haired “genuine Australian bushman” who stood as a walking live hint to the wonders that were inside, and incidentally made change wrong and talked in Irish brogue to an invisible some one.
Also worthy of mention was “Tent No. 2.” We shall see a good deal of the contents of Tent No. 2. Tent No. 2 was the dime museum tent, and varied and startling were its decorations. A two-headed boy grinned merrily at a painted hyena on one side. It was a laughing hyena, but the boy got the best of him because he had two heads to laugh with. A Norwegian giantess (colored) had the next side to herself, and so tall was she that a sort of continued-in-our-next arrangement was made with the roof, where a careful artist had painted half her head. There was a seal playing a banjo on the next panel, while a charmed boa constrictor listened. The boa constrictor’s tail was traced to the other side of the tent, his body having extended all that way. So he was a pretty big snake. Texas vowed he’d never seen a bigger one. And after that the six made a stampede for the main tent.
They stopped just long enough for Chauncey, “the gent with the white clothes and black whiskers,” to invest in peanuts. He told the man to keep the change with a haughty air, and then bid his friends help themselves. They took so many there wasn’t any change, at which the man growled.
In spite of jokes and peanuts they finally got into the tent. They bought their tickets separately so that their seats might be separate, and they found to their horror that the Australian bushman had sold them six in a row, and that every one in the place was staring at their extraordinary costumes. This rather pleased them, but they tried to look as if they didn’t care and stared around the tent.
After some munching of peanuts and stamping of feet (this latter chiefly by Texas, he of the carmine sweater and no coat, who was anxious to smash Smasher) a bell rang and the show had begun. A curtain opened at one side and in galloped a white horse and rider. Texas sprang up and started for the ring. Texas thought it was Smasher, and he grumbled some when he found it was only “Madam Nicolini, the daring equestrienne!” Texas admitted that her riding wasn’t bad, but he vowed he’d make her turn pale with envy when he once set out on Smasher. Seeing that Madam Nicolini had a perpetual blush of red paint that beat her rival’s sweater, Texas finally took back his rash threat and settled down to growl once more.
Mr. Jeremiah Powers had to curb his impatience. The programme wasn’t going to be changed for him. There were “daring aërial flights” at which the old ladies gasped and the fair damsels shrieked. There were performing dogs at which every one observed, “How cute!” a safe remark which the most critical could not dispute. There were the Alberti Brothers, who bowed whether you applauded or not, and the usual trick elephant who rang for his dinner when the clown told him not to, whereat the old gentlemen who had brought their little boys to enjoy the show laughed most uproariously and asked the doubtful little boys if it wasn’t funny.
And then came Smasher!
The curtain opened once more and the little bronco, meek and gentle, was led out. He was “nothin’ much,” so Texas said; “orter see my Tiger down home.” Texas had been persuaded by Mark to wait and see what else would happen before he ventured down, and so Texas was silent though wriggling anxiously in his seat.
A “gent” in full dress, just like Indian, was leading Smasher by the bridle. Having reached the middle of the ring he released the horse, who hung his head and looked like a poor, sleepy, half-starved little pony that would run from a mouse. Then the gent, who was “Smithers” himself, began thus:
“Now, ladies and gentlemen! We are about to witness the most interesting event of the varied programme of this marvelous and startling show. Behold Smasher, the world-renowned bronco. Now there must be gents in the audience who can ride, gents with sporting blood in their veins, gents who are willing, even anxious to show their skill. Ladies and gentlemen, Smasher challenges the world! Behold him!”
This masterpiece having finished, Smithers folded his arms. Mark was sitting on Texas meanwhile.
“Somebody’ll try it, old man,” Mark protested. “Just keep quiet. He’s not going away yet. It’ll be more fun after he’s thrown somebody—there now!”
The last exclamation of relief came as some one did come forward to try. He was a country yokel in his best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Having brought his best girl to town, and being secure in his skill with his farm plugs, he strode forward timidly to make a name for himself in Highland Falls forever.
“Ah!” said Smithers, serenely. “One gent has nerve! I knew that America with her sons of freedom could produce one man bold enough to dare this feat.”
The country youth hesitated a moment in front of his mount, while the crowd leaned forward in expectation. Having petted Smasher in a professional way and observed that the horse still hung its sleepy head, the rider summoned all his nerve and straddled the pony. The pony was so small and the man’s legs so long that his toes still touched the sawdust.
Smasher never moved an inch; even his eyes never opened. The yokel took hold of the bridle, straightened himself up to a stiff and awkward position and gazed about him with an air of delicious triumph. The multitude began to cheer.
“That’s fine,” said Smithers, smiling blandly. “Really fine! Now make him go.”
The hayseed laid hold of the bridle and gave it a jerk.
“Git ap!” said he.
And the bronco got. He only moved one-half of his body; his heels went up in one cataclysmic plunge, and the rider went through the air like a streak. He picked himself up with a good deal of sawdust in his mouth, way over in the opposite corner. The crowd simply howled with laughter and Smithers beamed benignantly.
“The challenge still stands,” said he, laughing at the plight of the farmer, who limped to his feet with a look on his face that led the facetious cornetist in the band to play faintly:
“I’ll never go there any more.”
Which made the crowd laugh all the louder.
“Next!” roared the proprietor. “Somebody else come try it now! Next!”
At this stage of the game Mark unbottled Texas; and Texas arose slowly and made his way down to the ring.
“I reckon I’ll try that air critter,” said he.
Smithers’ smile was as expansive as his shirt front. Two such fellows as this were a rare treat; usually every one was daunted by the first failure. This fellow was evidently a regular hayseed, too.
“Most charmed,” said the proprietor. “Step right up, I pray you. Really, sir——” There was something about his self-confident smile that “riled” our excitable Texan.
“Look a-yere!” he demanded, angrily, when he reached the ring. “You think I kain’t ride this hyar critter, don’t you? Hey?”
The whole crowd in that tent leaned forward excitedly; here was fun, a chance of a quarrel.
“Why, I’m sure I don’t know,” grinned the proprietor, suavely. “How should I know? Try it.”
“You got any money?” roared Texas.
“Why—er—yes. A little.”
Mr. Powers jammed his hands into one pocket and yanked out some bills.
“Go you one hundred I ride him!” he shouted.
“Bully, b’gee!” cried a voice in the crowd, and the rest roared in concert.
Smithers looked embarrassed.
“I—that is—I’ve hardly got so much—I——”
“Shame! Shame!” howled the delighted spectators.
“Whar’s that air sporting blood ye were a-talkin’ ’bout?” roared Texas. “Wow! I thought nobody’d ever ridden the critter, doggone his—er—shoes. Thought ye were so sure? ’Fraid, hey? I knowed it.”
The crowd howled still louder.
“Tell ye what I’ll do,” cried Texas, waving his bills excitedly. “I’ll go you this yere hundred to twenty! How’s that?”
“Who’ll hold the stakes?” inquired the proprietor, weakly.
“Put ’em down thar in the ring,” said Texas. “Let everybody see ’em.”
Smithers left the tent hurriedly, while the crowd roared with impatience. He came back with the money, which Texas examined cautiously, and then dropped with his own on the sawdust. And then he turned toward the sleepy bronco.
“I’m ready now,” said he. “Bring the critter hyar.”