We went into camp under the landward glacis of the cliffs, in a field
of clover which was to be ploughed under in a few days. We all were
there except Kelly Eyre, who had gone to telegraph the governor of
Lorient for permission to enter the port with the circus. Another
messenger also left camp on private business for me.
It was part of my duty to ration the hay for the elephant and the
thrice-accursed camel. The latter had just bitten Mr. Grigg, our
clown--not severely--and Speed and Horan the "Strong Man" were
hobbling the brute as I finished feeding my lions and came up to
assist the others.
"Watch that darn elephant, too, Mr. Grigg," said Byram, looking up
from a plate of fried ham that Miss Crystal, our "Trapeze Lady," had
just cooked for him over our gypsy fires of driftwood.
"Look at that elephant! Look at him!" continued Byram, with a trace
of animation lighting up his careworn face--"look at him now chuckin'
hay over his back. Scrape it up, Mr. Scarlett; hay's thirty a ton in
this war-starved country."
As I started to clean up the precious hay, the elephant gave a curious
grunt and swung his trunk toward me.
"There's somethin' paltry about that elephant," said Byram, in a
complaining voice, rising, with plate of ham in one hand, fork in the
other. "He's gittin' as mean as that crafty camuel. Make him move,
Mr. Speed, or he'll put his foot on the trombone."
"Hô Djebe! Mâil!" said Speed, sharply.
The elephant obediently shuffled forward; Byram sat down again, and
wearily cut himself a bit of fried ham; and presently we were all
sitting around the long camp-table in the glare of two smoky petroleum
torches, eating our bread and ham and potatoes and drinking Breton
cider, a jug of which Mr. Horan had purchased for a few coppers.
Some among us were too tired to eat, many too tired for conversation,
yet, from habit we fell into small talk concerning the circus, the
animals, the prospects of better days.
The ladies of the company, whatever quarrels they indulged in among
themselves, stood loyally by Byram in his anxiety and need. Miss
Crystal and Miss Delany displayed edifying optimism; Mrs. Horan
refrained from nagging; Mrs. Grigg, a pretty little creature, who was
one of the best equestriennes I ever saw, declared that we were living
too well and that a little dieting wouldn't hurt anybody.
McCadger, our band-master, came over from the other fire to say that
the men had finished grooming the horses, and would I inspect the
picket-line, as Kelly Eyre was still absent.
When I returned, the ladies had retired to their blankets under their
shelter-tent; poor little Grigg lay asleep at the table, his tired,
ugly head resting among the unwashed tin plates; Speed sprawled in his
chair, smoking a short pipe; Byram sat all hunched up, his head sunk,
eyes vacantly following the movements of two men who were washing
dishes in the flickering torch-light.
He looked up at me, saying: "I guess Mr. Speed is right. Them lions
o' yourn is fed too much horse-meat. Overeatin' is overheatin'; we've
got to give 'em beef or they'll be clawin' you. Yes, sir, they're all
het up. Hear 'em growl!"
"That's a fable, governor," I said, smiling and dropping into a
chair. "I've heard that theory before, but it isn't true."
"The trouble with your lions is that you play with them too much and
they're losing respect for you," said Speed, drowsily.
"The trouble with my lions," said I, "is that they were born in
captivity. Give me a wild lion, caught on his native heath, and I'll
know what to expect from him when I tame him. But no man on earth can
tell what a lion born in captivity will do."
The hard cider had cheered Byram a little; he drew a cherished cigar
from his vest-pocket, offered it to me, and when I considerately
refused, he carefully set it alight with a splinter from the fire. Its
odor was indescribable.
"Luck's a curious phenomena, ain't it, Mr. Scarlett?" he said.