The Young Acrobat of the Great North American Circus

CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. BICKFORD'S MORTIFYING DISCOVERY

Mr. Bickford was in excellent spirits. He had enjoyed the evening, and although he had been compelled to disburse a dollar for two circus tickets, a sum which to him seemed large, he was disposed to acknowledge that he had received his money's worth. Besides, and this seemed to him the greatest triumph of all, he had recovered his runaway apprentice, or thought he had. He inwardly resolved that Kit should smart for his past insubordination, though he had not yet decided in what way he would get even with him. The unexpected submissiveness shown by Kit elated him, and confirmed him in the idea he had long entertained that he could manage boys a good deal better than the average of men.

"Talk about hard cases," he said one day to his wife. "I'd like to see the boy that can get the start of Aaron Bickford. He'll have to get up unusually airly in the mornin'."

Mr. Bickford felt a little like crowing over his captive, and turned his head partly round to survey the boy on the back seat. Fortunately for William the darkness was so great that there was small chance of his detecting the imposture.

"I reckon you didn't expect to be ridin' back to Oakford along of me this evenin'," he observed.

"No, sir," muttered William in a voice scarcely audible.

"Ho, ho, you feel kind of grouty, eh?" said the blacksmith. "Well, I ain't much surprised. You thought you could have your own way with Aaron Bickford, but you're beginnin' to see your mistake, I reckon?"

"Yes, sir," replied the supposed Kit, in a meek voice.

"Ho, ho! That's the way boys ginerally come out when they try to buck agin' their elders. Not but you might have succeeded with some men, but you didn't know the man you had to deal with this time."

There was a sort of gurgle, for William was trying hard not to laugh, as he was picturing to himself the rage and mortification of Mr. Bickford when he discovered the deceit that had been practiced upon him. But the blacksmith misunderstood the sound, and thought Kit was sobbing.

"You needn't take on!" he said, magnanimously. "It ain't so bad as it might be. You'll be a good deal better off learnin' a good trade than trampin' round the country with the circus. I hope this'll be a lesson to you. You'd better not try to run away ag'in, for it won't be no use. You won't always have that long-legged giant to help you. If I'd done right, I should have had him took up for 'sault and battery. He needn't think because he's eight feet high, more or less, that he can defy the laws of the land. I reckon he got a little skeered of what he done, or he wouldn't have acted so different this evening."

William did not reply to this. He was rather in hopes Mr. Bickford would stop addressing him, for he did not like to run the risk of answering, as it might open the eyes of the blacksmith to the fact that he had the wrong boy in the wagon.

The distance to Oakford steadily diminished, though Mr. Bickford's horse was a slow one. At length it had dwindled to half a mile.

"Now I don't care if he does find out who I am," thought William. "It ain't but a little way home now, and I shouldn't mind walking." Still his own house was rather beyond Mr. Bickford's, and it was just as well to ride the whole way, if he could escape detection so long.

"Where did you learn them circus performances, Christopher?" suddenly asked the blacksmith, turning once more in his seat.

By this time they were within a few rods of the blacksmith's yard, and William became bold, now that he had nothing to lose by it.

"My name isn't Christopher," he answered in his usual tone.

"Your name isn't Christopher? That's what your uncle told me."

"I think you are mistaken," said William quietly.

"What's got into the boy? Is he goin' to deny his own name? What is your name, then?"

"My name is William Morris," was the distinct response.

"What!" exclaimed the blacksmith in amazement.

"I think you ought to know me, Mr. Bickford. I worked for you some time, you know."

"Take off your hat, and let me look at your face!" said Aaron Bickford, sternly.

William laughed as he complied with the request. It was now rather lighter, and the blacksmith, peering into his face, saw that it was indeed true—that the boy on the back seat was not Kit Watson at all, but his ex-apprentice, William Morris.

"It's Bill Morris, by the living jingo!" he exclaimed. "What do you say to that, Sarah?"

"You're a master hand at managing boys, Aaron," said his wife sarcastically.

"How came you in the wagon, Bill Morris?" demanded Bickford, not caring to answer his wife.

"The giant put me in," answered William.

"Where is that boy, Christopher Watson?"

"I expect he is travelin' with the show, Mr. Bickford."

"Who put you up to this mean trick?" demanded the blacksmith, wrathfully.

"Kit Watson."

"I've got an account to settle with you, William Morris. I s'pose you think you've done something pretty smart."

"I think he has, Aaron," said Mrs. Bickford, who seemed to take a malicious pleasure in opening her husband's wounds afresh.

"Mrs. Bickford, it isn't very creditable in you to triumph over your husband, just after he's been spendin' fifty cents for your amusement."

"Goodness knows, Mr. Bickford, you don't often take me to shows. I guess what you spend that way won't ruin you."

While the married pair were indulging in their little recriminations, William had managed to slip out of the wagon in the rear, and he was now a rod away.

"Good night, Mr. Bickford!" he shouted. "I'm much obliged to you for bringing me home. It's saved me a long walk."

The blacksmith's reply was one that I do not care to record. He was thoroughly angry and disgusted. If it hadn't been so late he would have got out and tried to inflict punishment on William with his whip, but the boy was too far away by this time to make this possible.

CHAPTER XIX.

STEPHEN WATSON VISITS OAKFORD

On Monday as Mr. Bickford was about his work a carriage drove into the yard, containing Stephen Watson and Ralph.

"Good morning, Mr. Bickford," said Stephen Watson. "I've called over to inquire about Kit. I hope he is doing his duty by you."

The blacksmith looked at Mr. Watson with embarrassment, and did not immediately reply.

Mr. Watson repeated his question.

"Kit isn't with me," answered Bickford, at length.

"Isn't with you!" repeated Stephen Watson, in surprise. "Where is he?"

"He's run away."

"Run away!" ejaculated Kit's uncle. "What is the meaning of that?"

"He said he didn't want to be a blacksmith, and that you had no authority to make him."

"But where has he gone? Have you any idea?"

"He has gone off with Barlow's circus."

"But what object can he have in going off with a circus?" asked Mr. Watson, no less bewildered.

"They've hired him to perform."

"Are you sure of this?"

"I ought to be," answered the blacksmith, grimly. "My wife and I saw him jumpin' round last evenin' in the circus tent over at Grafton."

"But I don't see what he—a green hand—can do. Ralph, can you throw any light on this mystery?"

Ralph explained that Kit had practiced acrobatic feats extensively at the gymnasium connected with the school.

"Did he ever talk of going off with a circus?" asked Mr. Watson.

"Never, though he enjoyed the exercise."

"I went after him and tried to get him back," said Mr. Bickford, "but he gave me the slip."

"He's done a very foolish and crazy thing. He can't get more than three or four dollars a week from the circus, and in the fall he'll be out of a job."

"Just as you say, sir. He'd have a good payin' trade if he stayed with me. What do you think it is best to do about it, Mr. Watson?"

"I shall do nothing. If the boy chooses to make a fool of himself, he may try it. Next fall, and possibly before, he'll be coming back in rags, and beg me to take him back."

"I hope you won't take him back," said Ralph, who was jealous of Kit.

"I shall not consider myself bound to do so, but if he consents to obey me, and learn a trade of Mr. Bickford, I will fit him, up and enable him to do so—out of charity, and because he is my nephew."

"Then you don't mean to do anything about it, sir?" asked Aaron Bickford, considerably disappointed, for he longed to get Kit into his power once more.

"No, I will leave the boy to himself. Ralph, as our business seems to be over, we will turn about and go home."

Mr. Watson drove out of the blacksmith's yard.

"Well, Ralph," he said, as they were on their way home, "I am very much annoyed at what your cousin has done, but I don't see that I am to blame."

"Of course you're not, pa," returned Ralph, promptly.

"Still the public may misjudge me. It will be very awkward to answer questions about Kit. I really don't know what to say."

"Say he's run away and joined the circus. We might as well tell the truth."

"I don't know but it will be best. I will add that, though it grieves me, I think it advisable, as he is so old, not to interfere with him, but let him see the error of his way for himself. I will say also that when he chooses to come back, I will make suitable arrangements for him."

"I guess that will do. I will say the same."

"I don't mind saying to you that I shall feel it quite a relief to be rid of the expense of maintaining him, for he has cost me a great deal of money. You are my son, and of course I expect to take care of you, and bring you up as a gentleman, but he has no claim upon me except that of relationship. I won't say that to others, however."

"You are quite right, pa. As he is poor, and has his own living to make, it isn't best to send him to a high-priced school, and give him too much money to spend."

It will be seen that there was a striking resemblance between the views of father and son, both of whom were intensely selfish, mean and unscrupulous.

Stephen Watson foresaw that there would be a difficulty in making outside friends of the family understand why Kit had left home. He deliberately resolved to misrepresent him, and the opportunity came sooner than he anticipated.

On the afternoon of the day of his call upon the blacksmith, there was a ring at the bell, and a middle-aged stranger was ushered into the parlor.

"I suppose you don't remember me," he said to Stephen Watson.

"I can't say I do," replied Stephen, eying him.

"I knew your brother better than I did you. I am Harry Miller, who used to go to school with you both in the old red schoolhouse on the hill."

"I remember your name, but I should not have remembered you."

"I don't wonder. Time changes us all. I am sorry to hear that your poor brother is dead."

"Yes," answered Stephen, heaving a sigh proper to the occasion, which was intended to signify his grief at the loss. "He was cut down like the grass of the field. It is the common lot."

"His wife died earlier, did she not?"

"Yes."

"But there was a son?"

"Yes."

"How old is the boy?"

"Just turned sixteen."

"May I see him? I should like to see the son of my old deskmate."

"Ah!" sighed Stephen. "I wish he were here to meet you."

"But surely he is not dead?"

"No; he is not dead, but he is a source of anxiety to me."

"And why?" asked the visitor, with concern. "Has he turned out badly?"

"Why, I don't know that I can exactly say that he has turned out badly."

"What is the matter with him, then?"

"He is wayward, and instead of being willing to devote himself to his school studies like my son Ralph, he has formed an extraordinary taste for the circus."

"Indeed! but where is he?"

"He is traveling with Barlow's circus."

"In what capacity?"

"As an acrobat."

Henry Miller laughed.

"I remember," he said, "that his father was fond of athletic sports. You never were."

"No, I was a quiet boy."

"That you were, and uncommonly sly!" thought Miller, but he did not consider it polite to say so. "Is the boy—by the way, what is his name?"

"Christopher. He is generally called Kit."

"Well, is Kit a good gymnast?"

"I believe he is."

"When did he join the circus?"

"Only yesterday. In fact it is painful for me to say so, he ran away from a good home to associate with mountebanks."

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"He is so headstrong that I have thought it best to give him his own way, and let him see for himself how foolish he has been. Of course he has a home to return to whenever he sees fit."

"That may be the best way. I should like to see the young rascal. I would follow up the circus and do so, only I am unfortunately called to California on business. I am part owner of a gold mine out there."

"I trust you have been prospered in your worldly affairs."

"Yes, I have every reason to be thankful. I suppose I am worth two hundred thousand dollars."

Stephen Watson, whose god was money, almost turned green with jealousy. At the same time he asked himself how he could take advantage of his old schoolmate's good luck.

"I wish he would take a fancy to my Ralph," he thought.

So he called in Ralph, and introduced him to the rich stranger.

"He's a good boy, my Ralph," he said; "sober and correct in all his habits, and fond of study."

Ralph was rather surprised to hear this panegyric, but presently his father explained to him in private the object he had in view. Then Ralph made himself as agreeable as he could, but he failed to please Mr. Miller.

"He is too much like his father," he said to himself.

When he terminated his call, he received a very cordial invitation to come again on his return from California.

"If Kit has returned I certainly will come," he replied, an answer which pleased neither Ralph nor his father.

CHAPTER XX.

A CHAT WITH A CANDY BUTCHER

Kit had a berth assigned him in one of the circus cars. His nearest neighbor was Harry Thorne, a young man of twenty-four, who filled the position of candy butcher. As this term may sound strange to my readers, I will explain that it is applied to the venders of candy, lemonade, peanuts, and other articles such as are patronized by those who come to see the show. It is really a very profitable business, as will be explained in the course of the story.

Harry Thorne was social and ready to give Kit any information about the circus.

"How long is it since you joined a circus?" asked Kit, after getting acquainted.

"I was younger than you," answered Thorne.

"Why did you join? What gave you the idea?"

"A spirit of adventure, I think. Besides, there was a large family of us—I am the oldest—and it was necessary for me to do something."

"That's a queer name—candy butcher."

"It seems so to you, but I am used to it."

"Did you become a candy butcher at once?"

"Not till I was eighteen. Before that I ran errands and made myself generally useful. I thought of being an acrobat, like you, but I was too stout and not active enough."

"I shouldn't think there would be much money made in your business," said Kit.

"That shows you don't know much about circus matters. Last fall I ran in with seven hundred dollars saved, besides paying all my expenses during the six months I was out."

"You ought to be pretty well off now, if you have been a candy butcher for five or six years."

"I haven't a cent, and am owing two hundred dollars in Philadelphia."

"How is that?"

"You don't often find a circus man that saves money. It's easy come, easy go. But I send money home every season—three or four hundred dollars at least, if I do well."

"That's a good thing any way. But if I were in your place I would put away some money every season."

"I could do it, but it's hard to make up my mind."

"I can't see how you can make such sums. It puzzles me."

"We are paid a fixed salary, say twenty-five dollars a month, and commission on sales. I was always pretty lucky in selling, and my income has sometimes been very large. But I don't make much in large places. It is in the smaller towns that the money is made. When a country beau brings his girl to the circus, he don't mind expense. He makes up his mind to spend several dollars in having a good time—so he buys lemonade, peanuts, apples, and everything that he or his girl fancies. In the city, where there are plenty of places where such things can be bought, we don't sell much. In New York or Philadelphia I make very little more than my salary."

"What is there most profit on?" asked Kit.

"Well, I should say lemonade. You've heard of circus lemonade?"

"Is there anything peculiar about it?"

"Yes, something peculiarly weak. A good-sized lemon will make half a dozen glasses, and perhaps more. But there is something cheaper still, and that is citric acid. I remember one hot day in an Ohio town. The thermometer stood at 99 degrees and there wasn't a drop of spring or well water to be had, for we had cornered it. All who were thirsty had to drink lemonade, and it took a good many glasses to quench thirst. I made a harvest that day, and so did the other candy butchers. If we could have a whole summer of such days, I could retire on a small fortune in October."

"Do you like the circus business?"

"Sometimes I get tired of it, but when the spring opens I generally have the circus fever."

"What do you do in the winter?"

"It is seldom I get anything to do. I am an expense, and that is why I find myself in debt when the new season opens. Last winter I was more lucky. A young fellow—an old circus acquaintance of mine—has a store in the country, and he offered to supply me with a stock of goods to sell on commission in country villages near by. In that way I filled up about three months, making my expenses, but doing nothing more. However, that was a great thing for me, and I start this season only two hundred dollars in debt, as I think I told you a few minutes ago."

"Is it the same way with performers?"

"No; they have a better chance. Next winter, if you try, you can probably make an engagement to perform at some dime museum or variety hall, in New York or elsewhere. I once got the position of ticket seller for a part of the winter."

"I don't think I should like to perform in a dime museum," said Kit.

"What's the odds, if you are well paid for it?"

"I don't intend to make my present business a permanent one."

"That's different. What will you do next fall?"

"I may go to school."

Harry Thorne whistled.

"That will be a novelty," he said. "I haven't been to school since I was twelve years old."

"Wouldn't you like to go now?"

"No; I'm too old. Are you much of a scholar?"

"I'm a pretty good Latin scholar, and know something of Greek."

"I'll bet there isn't another acrobat in the country that can say that. What salary do you get, if you don't mind telling?"

"Twenty-five dollars a week."

"You're in luck. How came Barlow to give you so much?"

"I think he took a liking to me. Perhaps he wanted to pay me for facing the lion at Smyrna."

"Were you the boy who did that? I thought your face looked familiar. You've got pluck, Kit."

"I hope so; but I'm not sure whether it is I or the snuff that is entitled to the most credit."

"Anyhow it took some courage, even if you did have the snuff with you."

"Do you know what is to be our route this season?"

"I think we are going West as far as St. Louis, taking all the larger towns and cities on our way. We are to show a week in Chicago. But I don't care so much for the cities as the country towns—the one-night places."

"Does Mr. Barlow go with us?"

"Not steadily. He drops in on us here and there. There's one thing I can say for him—he won't have any man in his employ drink or gamble. We have to bind ourselves to total abstinence while we are in his employ—that is, till the end of the season. Gambling is the great vice of circus men; it is more prevalent even than drinking."

"Don't the men do it on the sly?"

"They run a risk if they do. At the first offense they are fined, at the second or third they are bounced."

"That doesn't trouble me any. I neither drink nor gamble."

"Good for you."

"Say, when are you two fellows goin' to stop talkin'?" was heard from a neighboring berth. "You don't give a fellow a chance to sleep."

Kit and his new friend took the hint and addressed themselves to slumber.

CHAPTER XXI.

KIT MEETS A SCHOOLMATE

Kit slept profoundly, being very tired. He was taken by surprise when, the next morning, he was shaken into a state of wakefulness, and opening his eyes met those of his neighbor Harry Thorne.

"Is it morning?" he asked, in a sleepy tone.

"I should say it was. It is a quarter after nine, and the parade starts at ten."

"The parade?"

"Yes; we give a morning parade in every place we visit. If you are not on hand to take part in it, you will be fined five dollars."

"I'll be up in a jiffy," said Kit, springing out of his berth. "But there's time enough, isn't there?"

"Yes; but not too much. You will want to get some breakfast. By the way, are you used to driving?"

"Oh, yes. I have done a good deal of it," answered Kit.

"I thought so, as you are a country boy. How would you like to drive a span of horses attached to one of the small chariots?"

Kit was extremely fond of a horse, and he answered promptly, "I'll do it."

"There are two. The other is driven by Charlie Davis, once a performer but now a ticket man. He is a little older than you."

"All right! I don't see how I came to sleep so late."

"You and Charlie are good matches. Once he went to bed Saturday night, and did not wake up till Monday morning."

"That beats my record!"

Kit was dressed in less than ten minutes.

"Where shall I get breakfast?" he asked.

"The regular breakfast is over, and you will have to buy some. There is a restaurant just opposite the lot. You might get in with one of the cooks, and get something in the cook tent."

"No; I'll go to the restaurant. To-morrow I'll be on hand at the regular breakfast."

The restaurant was a small one, with no pretensions to style, but Kit was hungry and not particular. At the same table there was a dark complexioned boy of about his own size, who had just begun to dispatch a beefsteak.

He looked up as Kit seated himself.

"You're the new acrobat, are you not?" asked the other.

"Yes; are you Charlie Davis?"

"Yes; how do you know me?"

"Harry Thorne was speaking of you."

"I see you're one of the late birds as well as I. I generally have to buy my breakfast outside. How do you like circus life?"

"I haven't tried it well enough to tell. This is only my second day."

"I went into it at fourteen. I've been an acrobat, too, but I have a weak ankle, and have gone into the ticket department."

"Are you going to remain in the circus permanently?"

"No, I'm trying to wean myself from it. A friend has promised to set me up in business whenever I get ready to retire. If I kept on, I would be no better off at forty than I am now."

"Yet circus people make a good deal of money, I hear."

"Right you are, my boy, but they don't keep it. They get spoiled for anything else, and soon or later they are left out in the cold. I've had a good deal of fun out of it, for I like traveling, but I'm going to give it up."

"I took it up because I had nothing else to do, but I shan't stay in it long. I'll tell you about it some day. I hear you drive one of the pony chariots."

"Yes."

"I am to drive the other."

"Good! Don't let them run away with you, my boy."

"I'll try not to," said Kit, smiling. "Is there any danger?"

"Not much. They're trained. Are you fond of horses?"

"I like nothing better."

"So it is with me. I'll wait till you are through breakfast, and then we'll go over together."

Half an hour later Kit sat on the box of a chariot, drawn by two beautiful ponies. The circus line had been formed, and the parade began. Behind him was a circus wagon, or rather a cage on wheels, through the gratings of which could be seen a tiger, crafty and cruel looking. In front was an elephant, with two or three performers on his back. Kit was dressed in street costume, his circus dress not being required.