The wagon on which Mr. Lord was to send his new found employee was,
by the most singular chance, the one containing the monkeys, and Toby
accepted this as a good omen. He would be near his venerable friend all
night, and there was some consolation in that. The driver instructed
the boy to watch his movements, and when he saw him leading his horses
around, “to look lively and be on hand, for he never waited for anyone.”
Toby not only promised to do as ordered, but he followed the driver
around so closely that, had he desired, he could not have rid himself of
his little companion.
The scene which presented itself to Toby's view was strange and weird in
the extreme. Shortly after he had attached himself to the man with whom
he was to ride, the performance was over, and the work of putting the
show and its belongings into such a shape as could be conveyed from one
town to another was soon in active operation. Toby forgot his grief,
forgot that he was running away from the only home he had ever known--in
fact, forgot everything concerning himself--so interested was he in that
which was going on about him.
As soon as the audience had got out of the tent and almost before the
work of taking down the canvas was begun.
Torches were stuck in the earth at regular intervals, the lights that
had shone so brilliantly in and around the ring had been extinguished,
the canvas sides had been taken off, and the boards that had formed the
seats were being packed into one of the carts with a rattling sound that
seemed as if a regular fusillade of musketry was being indulged in. Men
were shouting; horses were being driven hither and thither, harnessed to
the wagons, or drawing the huge carts away as soon as they were loaded;
and everything seemed in the greatest state of confusion, while really
the work was being done in the most systematic manner possible.
Toby had not long to wait before the driver informed him that the time
for starting had arrived, and assisted him to climb up to the narrow
seat whereon he was to ride that night.
The scene was so exciting, and his efforts to stick to the narrow seat
so great, that he really had no time to attend to the homesick feeling
that had crept over him during the first part of the evening.
The long procession of carts and wagons drove slowly out of the town,
and when the last familiar house had been passed the driver spoke to
Toby for the first time, since they started.
“Pretty hard work to keep on--eh, sonny?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, as the wagon jolted over a rock, bouncing him
high in air, and he, by strenuous efforts, barely succeeded in alighting
on the seat again, “it is pretty hard work; an' my name's Toby Tyler.”
Toby heard a queer sound that seemed to come from the man's throat, and
for a few moments he feared that his companion was choking. But he soon
understood that this was simply an attempt to laugh, and he at once
decided that it was a very poor style of laughing.
“So you object to being called sonny, do you?”
“Well, I'd rather be called Toby, for, you see, that's my name.”
“All right, my boy; we'll call you Toby. I suppose you thought it was a
mighty fine thing to run away an' jine a circus, didn't you?”
Toby started in affright, looked around cautiously, and then tried to
peer down through the small square aperture, guarded by iron rods, that
opened into the cage just back of the seat they were sitting on. Then
he turned slowly around to the driver, and asked, in a voice sunk to a
whisper: “How did you know that I was runnin' away? Did he tell you?”
and Toby motioned with his thumb as if he were pointing out someone
behind him.
It was the driver's turn now to look around in search of the “he”
referred to by Toby.
“Who do you mean?” asked the man, impatiently.
“Why, the old feller; the one in the cart there. I think he knew I was
runnin' away, though he didn't say anything about it; but he looked just
as if he did.”
The driver looked at Toby in perfect amazement for a moment, and
then, as if suddenly understanding the boy, relapsed into one of those
convulsive efforts that caused the blood to rush up into his face and
gave him every appearance of having a fit.
“You must mean one of the monkeys,” said the driver, after he had
recovered his breath, which had been almost shaken out of his body by
the silent laughter. “So you thought a monkey had told me what any fool
could have seen if he had watched you for five minutes.”
“Well,” said Toby, slowly, as if he feared he might provoke one of those
terrible laughing spells again, “I saw him tonight, an' he looked as if
he knew what I was doin'; so I up an' told him, an' I didn't know but
he'd told you, though he didn't look to me like a feller that would be
mean.”
There was another internal shaking on the part of the driver, which Toby
did not fear so much, since he was getting accustomed to it, and then
the man said, “Well, you are the queerest little cove I ever saw.”
“I s'pose I am,” was the reply, accompanied by a long drawn sigh. “I
don't seem to amount to so much as the other fellers do, an' I guess
it's because I'm always hungry; you see, I eat awful, Uncle Dan'l says.”
The only reply which the driver made to this plaintive confession was to
put his hand down into the deepest recesses of one of his deep pockets
and to draw therefrom a huge doughnut, which he handed to his companion.
Toby was so much at his ease by this time that the appetite which had
failed him at supper had now returned in full force, and he devoured the
doughnut in a most ravenous manner.
“You're too small to eat so fast,” said the man, in a warning tone, as
the last morsel of the greasy sweetness disappeared, and he fished up
another for the boy. “Some time you'll get hold of one of the India
rubber doughnuts that they feed to circus people, an' choke yourself to
death.”
Toby shook his head, and devoured this second cake as quickly as he had
the first, craning his neck, and uttering a funny little squeak as the
last bit went down, just as a chicken does when he gets too large a
mouthful of dough.
“I'll never choke,” he said, confidently. “I'm used to it; and Uncle
Dan'l says I could eat a pair of boots an' never wink at 'em; but I
don't just believe that.”
As the driver made no reply to this remark Toby watched with no little
interest all that was passing on around him. Each of the wagons had a
lantern fastened to the hind axle, and these lights could be seen far
ahead on the road, as if a party of fireflies had started in single file
on an excursion. The trees by the side of the road stood out weird and
ghostly looking in the darkness, and the rumble of the carts ahead
and behind formed a musical accompaniment to the picture that sounded
strangely doleful.
Mile after mile was passed over in perfect silence, save now and then
when the driver would whistle a few bars of some very dismal tune that
would fairly make Toby shiver with its mournfulness. Eighteen miles was
the distance from Guilford to the town where the next performance of the
circus was to be given, and as Toby thought of the ride before them it
seemed as if the time would be almost interminable. He curled himself up
on one corner of the seat, and tried very hard to go to sleep; but just
as his eyes began to grow heavy the wagon would jolt over some rock or
sink deep in some rut, till Toby, the breath very nearly shaken out
of his body, and his neck almost dislocated, would sit bolt upright,
clinging to the seat with both hands, as if he expected each moment to
be pitched out into the mud.
The driver watched him closely, and each time that he saw him shaken
up and awakened so thoroughly he would indulge in one of his silent
laughing spells, until Toby would wonder whether he would ever recover
from it. Several times had Toby been awakened, and each time he had seen
the amusement his sufferings caused, until he finally resolved to put an
end to the sport by keeping awake.
“What is your name?” he asked of the driver, thinking a conversation
would be the best way to rouse himself into wakefulness.
“Waal,” said the driver, as he gathered the reins carefully in one hand,
and seemed to be debating in his mind how he should answer the question,
“I don't know as I know myself, it's been so long since I've heard it.”
Toby was wide enough awake now, as this rather singular problem was
forced upon his mind. He revolved the matter silently for some moments,
and at last he asked, “What do folks call you when they want to speak to
you?”
“They always call me Old Ben, an' I've got so used to the name that I
don't need any other.”
Toby wanted very much to ask more questions, but he wisely concluded
that it would not be agreeable to his companion.
“I'll ask the old man about it,” said Toby to himself, referring to the
aged monkey, whom he seemed to feel acquainted with; “he most likely
knows, if he'll say anything.”
After this the conversation ceased, until Toby again ventured to
suggest, “It's a pretty long drive, hain't it?”
“You want to wait till you've been in this business a year or two,” said
Ben, sagely, “an' then you won't think much of it. Why, I've known the
show towns to be thirty miles apart, an' them was the times when we had
lively work of it. Riding all night and working all day kind of wears on
a fellow.”
“Yes, I s'pose so,” said Toby, with a sigh, as he wondered whether he
had got to work as hard as that; “but I s'pose you get all you want to
eat, don't you?”
“Now you've struck it!” said Ben, with the air of one about to impart a
world of wisdom, as he crossed one leg over the other, that his position
might be as comfortable as possible while he was initiating his young
companion into the mysteries of the life. “I've had all the boys ride
with me since I've been with this show, an' I've tried to start them
right; but they didn't seem to profit by it, an' always got sick of the
show an' run away, just because they didn't look out for themselves as
they ought to. Now listen to me, Toby, an' remember what I say. You see
they put us all in a hotel together, an' some of these places where we
go don't have any too much stuff on the table. Whenever we strike a new
town you find out at the hotel what time they have the grub ready, an'
you be on hand, so's to get in with the first. Eat all you can, an' fill
your pockets.”
“If that's all a feller has to do to travel with a circus,” said Toby,
“I'm just the one, 'cause I always used to do just that when I hadn't
any idea of bein' a circus man.”
“Then you'll get along all right,” said Ben, as he checked the speed of
his horses and, looking carefully ahead, said, as he guided his team to
one side of the road, “This is as far as we're going tonight.”
Toby learned that they were within a couple of miles of the town, and
that the entire procession would remain by the roadside until time to
make the grand entree into the village, when every wagon, horse, and man
would be decked out in the most gorgeous array, as they had been when
they entered Guilford.
Under Ben's direction he wrapped himself in an old horse blanket,
and lay down on the top of the wagon; and he was so tired from the
excitement of the day and night that he had hardly stretched out at full
length before he was fast asleep.