JIM was slow to-night. The big show was nearly over, yet many of the
props used in the early part of the bill were still unloaded.
He was tinkering absent-mindedly with one of the wagons in the back lot,
and the men were standing about idly, waiting for orders, when Barker
came out of the main tent and called to him sharply:
“Hey, there, Jim! What's your excuse to-night?”
“Excuse for what?” Jim crossed slowly to Barker.
“The cook tent was started half an hour late, and the side show top
ain't loaded yet.”
“Your wagons is on the bum, that's what! Number thirty-eight carries the
cook tent and the blacksmith has been tinkering with it all day. Ask HIM
what shape it's in.”
“You're always stallin',” was Barker's sullen complaint. “It's the
wagons, or the black-smiths, or anything but the truth. _I_ know what's
the matter, all right.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Jim, sharply.
“I mean that all your time's took up a-carryin' and a-fetchin' for that
girl what calls you 'Muvver Jim.'”
“What have yer got to say about her?” Jim eyed him with a threatening
look.
“I got a-plenty,” said Barker, as he turned to snap his whip at the
small boys who had stolen into the back lot to peek under the rear edge
of the “big top.” “She's been about as much good as a sick cat since she
come back. You saw her act last night.”
“Yes,” answered Jim, doggedly.
“Wasn't it punk? She didn't show at ALL this afternoon--said she was
sick. And me with all them people inside what knowed her, waitin' ter
see 'er.”
“Give her a little time,” Jim pleaded. “She ain't rode for a year.”
“Time!” shouted Barker. “How much does she want? She's been back a month
and instead o' bracin' up, she's a-gettin' worse. There's only one thing
for me to do.”
“What's that?” asked Jim, uneasily.
“I'm goin' ter call her, and call her hard.”
“Look here, Barker,” and Jim squared his shoulders as he looked steadily
at the other man; “you're boss here, and I takes orders from you, but if
I catches you abusin' Poll, your bein' boss won't make no difference.”
“You can't bluff me,” shouted Barker.
“I ain't bluffin'; I'm only TELLIN' yer,” said Jim, very quietly.
“Well, you TELL her to get onto her job. If she don't she quits, that's
all.” He hurried into the ring.
Jim took one step to follow him, then stopped and gazed at the ground
with thoughtful eyes. He, too, had seen the change in Polly. He had
tried to rouse her; it was no use. She had looked at him blankly. “If
she would only complain,” he said to himself. “If she would only get
mad, anything, anything to wake her.” But she did not complain. She
went through her daily routine very humbly and quietly. She sometimes
wondered how Jim could talk so much about her work, but before she could
answer the question, her mind drifted back to other days, to a garden
and flowers, and Jim stole away unmissed, and left her with folded hands
and wide, staring eyes, gazing into the distance.
The memory of these times made Jim helpless to-night. He had gone on
hoping from day to day that Barker might not notice the “let-down” in
her work, and now the blow had fallen. How could he tell her?
One of the acts came tumbling out of the main tent. There was a moment's
confusion, as clowns, acrobats and animals passed each other on their
way to and from the ring, then the lot cleared again, and Polly came
slowly from the dressing tent. She looked very different from the little
girl whom Jim had led away from the parson's garden in a simple, white
frock one month before. Her thin, pensive face contrasted oddly with
her glittering attire. Her hair was knotted high on her head {a}nd
intertwined with flowers and jewels. Her slender neck seemed scarcely
able to support its burden. Her short, full skirt and low cut bodice
were ablaze with white and coloured stones.
“What's on, Jim?” she asked.
“The 'Leap o' Death.' You got plenty a' time.”
Polly's mind went back to the girl who answered that call a year ago.
Her spirit seemed very near to-night. The band stopped playing. Barker
made his grandiloquent announcement about the wonderful act about to be
seen, and her eyes wandered to the distant church steeple. The moonlight
seemed to shun it to-night. It looked cold and grim and dark. She
wondered whether the solemn bell that once called its flock to worship
had become as mute as her own dead heart. She did not hear the whirr of
the great machine inside the tent, as it plunged through space with its
girl occupant. These things were a part of the daily routine, part of
the strange, vague dream through which she must stumble for the rest of
her life.
Jim watched her in silence. Her face was turned from him. She had
forgotten his presence.
“Star gazin', Poll?” he asked at length, dreading to disturb her revery.
“I guess I was, Jim.” She turned to him with a little, forced smile. He
longed to save her from Barker's threatened rebuke.
“How yer feelin' to-night?”
“I'm all right,” she answered, cheerfully
“Anythin' yer want?”
“Want?” she turned upon him with startled eyes. There was so much that
she wanted, that the mere mention of the word had opened a well of pain
in her heart.
“I mean, can I do anythin' for you?”
“Oh, of course not.” She remembered how little ANY ONE could do.
“What is it, Poll?” he begged; but she only turned away and shook her
head with a sigh. He followed her with anxious eyes. “What made yer cut
out the show to-day? Was it because you didn't want ter ride afore folks
what knowed yer? Ride afore HIM, mebbe?”
“HIM?” Her face was white. Jim feared she might swoon. “You don't mean
that he was----”
“Oh, no,” he answered, quickly, “of course not. Parsons don't come to
places like this one. I was only figurin' that yer didn't want OTHER
folks to see yer and to tell him how you was ridin'.” She did not
answer.
“Was that it, Poll?” he urged.
“I don't know.” She stared into space.
“Was it?”
“I guess it was,” she said, after a long time.
“I knowed it,” he cried. “I was a fool to a-brung you back. Yer don't
belong with us no more.”
“Oh, don't, Jim! don't! Don't make me feel I'm in the way here, too!”
“Here, too?” He looked at her in astonishment. “Yer wasn't in HIS way,
was yer, Poll?”
“Yes, Jim.” She saw his look of unbelief and continued hurriedly. “Oh,
I tried not to be. I tried so hard. He used to read me verses out of a
Bible about my way being his way and my people his people, but it isn't
so, Jim. Your way is the way you are born, and your people are the
people you are born with, and you can't change it, Jim, no matter how
hard you try.”
“YOU was changin' it,” he answered, savagely. “You was gettin' jes'
like them people. It was me what took yer away and spoiled it all. You
oughtn't to a come. What made yer, after yer said yer wouldn't?”
She did not answer. Strange things were going through the mind of the
slow-witted Jim. He braced himself for a difficult question.
“Will yer answer me somethin' straight?” he asked.
“Why, of course,” she said as she met his gaze.
“Do you love the parson, Poll?”
She started.
“Is that it?”
Her lids fluttered and closed, she caught her breath quickly, her lips
apart, then looked far into the distance.
“Yes, Jim, I'm afraid--that's it.” The little figure drooped, and
she stood before him with lowered eyes, unarmed. Jim looked at her
helplessly, then shook his big, stupid head.
“Ain't that hell?”
It seemed such a short time to Jim since he had picked her up, a cooing
babe, at her dead mother's side. He watched the tender, averted face.
Things had turned out so differently from what he had planned.
“And he didn't care about you--like that?” he asked, after a pause.
“No, not in that way.” She was anxious to defend the pastor from even
the thought of such a thing. “He was good and kind always, but he didn't
care THAT WAY. He's not like that.”
“I guess I'll have a talk with him,” said Jim, and he turned to go.
“Talk!” she cried.
He stopped and looked at her in astonishment. It was the first time
that he had ever heard that sharp note in her voice. Her tiny figure was
stiffened with decision. Her eyes were blazing.
“If you ever DARE to speak to him--about me, you'll never see me again.”
Jim was perplexed.
“I mean it, Jim. I've made my choice, and I've come back to you. If you
ever try to fix up things between him and me, I'll run away--really and
truly away--and you'll never, never get me back.”
He shuffled awkwardly to her side and reached apologetically for
the little, clenched fist. He held it in his big, rough hand, toying
nervously with the tiny fingers.
“I wouldn't do nothin' that you wasn't a-wantin', Poll. I was just a
tryin' to help yer, only I--I never seem to know how.”
She turned to him with tear-dimmed eyes, and rested her hands on his
great, broad shoulders, and he saw the place where he dwelt in her
heart.