They left the building, and when she was sure they were out of earshot,
Charlotte said: "What do you do, strong boy, fake 'em?"
"No. I do them."
"Aw--you don't need to kid me."
"I'm not. You saw me lift him, didn't you? Well--that was nothing."
"Jeest! That I should live to see the day I got a bird like you."
Until three o'clock Hugo and Charlotte occupied their time with feverish
activity. They found a small apartment not far from the sea-shore. It
was clean and bright and it had windows on two sides. Its furniture was
nearly new, and Charlotte, with tears in her eyes, sat in all the
chairs, lay on the bed, took the egg-beater from the drawer in the
kitchen table and spun it in an empty bowl. They went out together and
bought a quantity and a variety of food. They ate an early luncheon and
Hugo set out to gather the properties for his demonstration. At three
o'clock, before a dozen men, he gave an exhibition of strength the like
of which had never been seen in any museum of human abnormalities.
When he went back to his apartment, Charlotte, in a gingham dress which
she had bought with part of the money he had given her, was preparing
dinner. He took her on his lap. "Did you get the job?"
"Sure I did. Fifty a week and ten per cent of the gate receipts."
"Gee! That's a lot of money!"
Hugo nodded and kissed her. He was very happy. Happier, in a certain
way, than he had ever been or ever would be again. His livelihood was
assured. He was going to live with a woman, to have one always near to
love and to share his life. It was that concept of companionship, above
all other things, which made him glad.
Two days later, as Hugo worked to prepare the vehicles of his
exhibition, he heard an altercation outside the tent that had been
erected for him. A voice said: "Whatcha tryin' to do there, anyhow?"
"Why, I was making this strong man as I saw him. A man with the
expression of strength in his face."
"But you gotta bat' robe on him. What we want is muscles. Muscles, bo.
Bigger an' better than any picture of any strong man ever made. Put one
here--an' one there--"
"But that isn't correct anatomy."
"To hell wit' that stuff. Put one there, I says."
"But he'll be out of drawing, awkward, absurd."
"Say, listen, do you want ten bucks for painting this sign or shall I
give it to some one else?"
"Very well. I'll do as you say. Only--it isn't right."
Hugo walked out of the tent. A young man was bending over a huge sheet
made of many lengths of oilcloth sewn together. He was a small person,
with pale eyes and a white skin. Beside him stood the manager, eyeing
critically the strokes applied to the cloth. In a semi-finished state
was the young man's picture of the imaginary Hogarth.
"That's pretty good," Hugo said.
The young man smiled apologetically. "It isn't quite right. You can see
for yourself you have no muscles there--and there. I suppose you're
Hogarth?"
"Yes."
"Well--I tried to explain the anatomy of it, but Mr. Smoots says anatomy
doesn't matter. So here we go." He made a broad orange streak.
Hugo smiled. "Smoots is not an anatomical critic of any renown. I say,
Smoots, let him paint it as he sees best. God knows the other posters
are atrocious enough."
The youth looked up from his work. "Good God, don't tell me you're
really Hogarth!"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Well--well--I--I guess it was your English."
"That's funny. And I don't blame you." Hugo realized that the young
sign-painter was a person of some culture. He was about Hugo's age,
although he seemed younger on first glance. "As a matter of fact, I'm a
college man." Smoots had moved away. "But, for the love of God, don't
tell any one around here."