FOR three more days it rained. Our very lives were soggy. The last town had been a bloomer. Not enough money had been taken in at the gate to pay expenses. Cameron was sad. And still it rained. We hoped, the derelicts of circus life, that by the grace of God and the winds of chance we would again see the sun.
The performers were able to travel in some comfort. But the canvasmen, hostlers and stake-drivers, were not so fortunate. We protected ourselves from the maddening rain by crawling under pieces of side-wall canvas atop the wagons. In spite of the rain, we tried to sleep.
The cars lurched noisily from one tie to another through the rainy night. There were no clouds; just the raindrops stabbing through the heavy steel atmosphere.
Once in the pathos of disgust I started to sing, “I wish I was in Dixie, Hurray! Hurray!”
“Shut up, you dog, or we’ll lynch you for cruelty to animals,” the jockey yelled above the creaking of the wagons.
I hummed “Rock of Ages” and tried to doze again.
Still a boy, my heart beat lighter then. All life was a pageant where now it is a slow parade.
But I did have one concern. Burrowed under the canvas not ten feet from me was an immense pounder of stakes in whose head several screws had suddenly loosened. It was shaped like a lead bullet that hit a granite wall. Over it was blonde clipped hair that looked like stubs of withered grass.
His nose had been smashed to the left. Each eyeball was permanently fixed in the left corner of his eye. He could not look to the right without turning half way round. But his appearance did not bother me. I had always been certain from the day he joined the show that he was an escaped lunatic, though it was too personal a question to discuss with him.
I had no reverence, and the blonde giant was a religious fanatic. He talked loud and long about Sodom and Gomorrah, as though he felt I was an outlaw from those unhappy places. I had once innocently said to him, “I wonder who makes God’s raincoats. You know he’s a big guy and I’ll bet it takes all the canvas in a Barnum tent just to pad his shoulders. He should give a God damn about it rainin’ on us guys.” I had made the remark merely as a philosophical speculation, being very young. But the blonde gentleman was a Christian and became my mortal enemy.
Some days before I had picked up a little dog, the majority of whose ancestors had been Fox terriers. He was all white, save for the end of his stubby tail, which was black. I met him on the circus lot. He was so joyful and carefree, and so glad to see me that I held him in my arms a long time.
I called him Jeremiah. The daintiest of women have since tripped in and out of my life, but little stub-tailed Jeremiah remains my first remembered love.
We trekked with the circus together with no subtleties, and no explanations, our hearts laid bare to one another. I was not a tramp circus kid to Jeremiah, but a traveling gentleman who loved dogs. I write this in explanation of my love for him. It has bulked large through the years.
Jeremiah now slept under the canvas with me. The huge blonde man thought I was making fun of religion whenever I called to the dog. Just the day before he had kicked at Jeremiah, and missed him. I saw the act and tangled with the stake-driver. Jeremiah, in his haste to help me, started to bite, but the little rascal got the wrong leg. Silver Moon Dugan pulled me away from the big blonde.
I could now hear the man moving uneasily under the canvas. I had, like many others, tried to sleep in the bunks. The vermin had routed us all. Now it was anywhere out of the wet.
I would doze fitfully, alert for defense if the blonde should want to rid a sinful world of my presence. Jeremiah seemed to sense my uneasiness, and kept burying his nose under my armpit.
In this manner we jolted on through the rain-drenched night.
We reached a muddy suburb of Atlanta with early dawn. When we unloaded the circus, Jock was compelled to go into Atlanta for more horses to pull us.
Roxie, the best elephant with the show, had worn her forehead raw, pushing out wagons bogged in the mud. Jumpy had made a pad for it out of an old army blanket and a quilt. The heavy poultices dripped with water which ran down her trunk. She was in an evil mood. She clomped through the mud swinging her trunk madly.
After much trouble we were on our way to the circus grounds. A wind came up and sizzed through the rain. Lanterns hung on each wagon. The wind made them bob up and down as if they floated on water. Lanterns were also attached to the neck yoke of the lead horses. From the distance we must have resembled an immense glowworm crawling through space.
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.