(_Based on an old legend, and also, I am sorry to say, on fact._)
The scene is the interior of a small tent at a country fair. Through
the open door can be seen the back of Bert, who is shouting madly,
“Walk up! Walk up! Now showin’--the Performin’ Fleas! Edward! Edward!
Does everything but talk. Walk up! Walk up!” Seven or eight people file
sheepishly into the tent and stand reverently in front of the small
table under the single bright light--a soldier and his love, two small
boys, a highly respectable mater and paterfamilias, with Reginald in
an Eton collar, also a young man who may be a barrister, or possibly
one of those writing fellows. They do not look at each other; _they are
ashamed_.
The red velvet curtain is drawn across the door of the tent, muffling
the wild noises of the fair.
Mr. Slint, the little showman, adjusts his gold pince-nez and speaks;
the audience close round the table and crane their necks. Mr. Slint
speaks in the patronizing, almost contemptuous, tones of the expert
lecturer who has something unique to offer.
_Mr. Slint_ (_quietly_). I now show you the Performing Fleas. The fleas
are common fleas, trained by myself. Perseverance and patience is alone
required.
_The Writing Fellow_ (_intelligently_). You never use the whip?
_Mr. Slint_ (_taking no notice_). Now the nature of the flea is to ’op;
it is _not_ the nature of the flea to _walk_. I ’ave trained the fleas
to walk. I will now show you the flea as newly captured. Being still
untrained, ’e still ’ops, you see.
He produces a miniature kennel, to which is attached “by a ’uman ’air”
an undeniable flea. The flea hops gallantly, but is clearly impeded
from doing its best jumps by the human hair.
We are now shown a second flea which is “only half-trained.” He has
certainly forgotten how to hop. Indeed he seems to be suffering from
congenital inertia. He scrambles a centimetre or two and sometimes
makes a sort of flutter off the ground, but he rather suggests a
solicitor learning to fly than a flea learning to walk.
_Mr. S._ I will now show you the flea when fully trained.
He opens a small cardboard box which seems to be full of toy
four-wheelers and hansom-cabs. They are made of some metal, brightly
painted, with substantial metal wheels. One of these vehicles is placed
on the lighted board and begins to move. It is drawn by Eustace. It
moves at a steady pace towards the materfamilias.
_Reginald_ (_suddenly, in a high piping voice_). How does he feed them,
mother?
_The Materfamilias._ Hush, dear.
_Mr. S._ (_impassive_). The fleas are fed on the ’uman arm. (_An
after-thought_) My own.
_Reginald_ (_an imaginative child_). Does he feed them one at a time or
all together, mother?
_The M.F._ Hush, dear.
_Mr. S._ I will now show you Edward, champion flea of the world.
Edward is indeed a magnificent creature. He is drawing a light racing
hansom and he shows an amazing turn of speed. Eustace with his heavy
old four-wheeler has a long start, but in a moment Edward is up with
him; he has passed him.
Reginald (_breathlessly_). Mother, he’s _running_!
And so he is. He is making a bee-line for the M.F. _Will he reach her?_
No. Mr. Slint has coolly picked up Edward’s hansom and is showing him
to the spectators through a magnifying-glass. The limelight is thrown
on to Edward’s swarthy features and by an ingenious use of the cinema
we are now shown a striking “close-up” of Edward’s expression as he is
passed round before the people in the tent, hanging in his tiny collar
at the end of the human hair. Rage, hatred, mortification, boredom,
and what can only be described as the lust for blood are indicated in
turn by the rolling eyes, the mobile lips. And, as he passes before the
M.F., he wears a look of thwarted ambition which makes one shudder.
Now comes the final spectacle. Out of the little box Mr. Slint rapidly
takes cab after cab and sets them on the white board, line abreast.
Each cab is drawn by a single devoted flea. On the right of the line
is Edward, on the left is Eustace. In perfect order the fleas advance,
dressing by the right....
It is a moving sight. There is something very sinister in that steady,
noiseless, calculated progress--for I need not say that the fleas
are moving _away_ from Mr. Slint: they are moving with machine-like
precision towards Reginald. No, they have changed direction. Edward has
given them “Right incline!” They are moving with machine-like precision,
silent, inexorable, cabs and all, towards the materfamilias.
_R._ (_Shrilly, still worried_). Do they have to be unharnessed for
meals, mother?
_The M.F._ Hush, dear.
Mr. Slint purrs on about his patience and perseverance. Suddenly
there is a stir on the right of the line; there has been an accident;
Edward’s wheels are locked with the careless four-wheeler’s on his
left. A scurry, a sharp cry from Mr. Slint and Edward has disappeared.
Mr. Slint acts promptly. The door of the tent is barred. He announces
to the cowering spectators that a valuable artiste is missing and that
those present are to be searched before leaving. (_He suspects foul
play._)
Suddenly he makes a dart at the M.F. and from her shoulder--oh,
horror!--he takes a _Thing_. “Larceny!” he cries; “I mean abduction.
Quick Bert, the police.”
_The Paterfamilias._ Spare her, sir. She is a mother.
_A policeman_ (_entering_). Now then, what’s this ’ere?
_Mr. S._ (_moved by who knows what chivalrous impulse_). Madam, I have
wronged you. This is not Edward. It is one of yours. (_He replaces the
Thing._)
_The M.F._ (_shrieking_). Oh, oh! The _shame_ of it!
_Reginald._ _I_ know, mother! Put it on the table. If it’s Edward it
will walk: if it’s one of--if it’s not, it will hop.
The Thing is placed solemnly upon the table. All crowd around and watch
for the issue. The flea does not walk. On the other hand it does not
hop. Nothing happens. The flea is dead.
_So no one will ever know._
The M.F. swoons away....