The two friends parted at the train that night. Charles felt a pang of
loneliness as his companion was borne away. He had his bag with him and
he wondered what he had better do. There was a small hotel near by and
he went into the office and asked for a room. The clerk handed a pen to
him across the counter and turned the register around for him to
inscribe his name. Charles hesitated for barely an instant, then decided
to make use of his own name. It looked strange to him, for he had not
written it since he left home.
"C. Brown," he smiled. "Too common to attract notice. I've given up
everything else; I will stick to my name. I can't always be lying about
it."
A negro porter showed him his room. It was on the second floor and
looked out toward the circus-grounds. The windows were up and he could
hear the band and the clapping of hands by the audience. The air of the
room was hot, and so he threw off his coat and tried to be comfortable,
but he was restless and had no inclination to sleep. He knew, from the
changing airs of the band, every act that was on in the ring. He could
hear the familiar voice of the clown, the crack of the ringmaster's
whip, and the clown's comical cry of pain, followed by the moss-grown
jests Charles had heard hundreds of times.
Finding that he could not sleep, he put on his coat and went out. The
street below was quite deserted. The stores were all closed. Everybody
had gone to the circus. He walked to the end of the street, then turned
eastward and climbed a hill in the edge of the town. He had the square
and the diverging streets before him, and an odd sense of part ownership
in it all crept over him.
"It is mine, it is mine!" he whispered. "I'll live here or close by.
I'll make a home of it."
The performance was over under the vast canvas. He knew it from the
ceasing of the music and the far-away hum of voices as the crowd
filtered back to the town. One by one the tent lights went out. He heard
the rumble of the wheeled animal cages, the gilded band-wagon and gaudy
chariots, as they were rolled on to the flat cars; the loud shouts of
teamsters; the roar of a disturbed lion. He heard the clatter of the
seat-boards and supports as they were taken down and hauled to the
train, the crash of falling tent-poles, the familiar oaths of the
foreman of the gang he had just left. Soon the lights were all out save
those moving about the train. The bell of the locomotive was ringing a
hurry signal. Charles had a mental picture of his former companions
tumbling, half undressed, into their berths in the dimly lighted cars.
There was a sound of escaping steam from the locomotive, a clanging of
its bell. The train was moving. Charles waved his hat in the still air
as the train was passing the foot of the hill.
"Good-by, boys!" he said, with feeling. "I'll never see you again."
The train moved on and disappeared in the distance. Charles sat down on
a boulder. For a year past he had longed for just that sort of freedom,
but, now that it was within his reach, it somehow lacked the charm he
had expected. Suddenly he felt averse to the thought of sleeping in the
room he had taken at the hotel. He wanted to lie on the grass there in
the starlight, and greet the rising of the sun upon his new life. But he
told himself that he had better go to the hotel. Not to occupy a room
after engaging it might arouse suspicion, so he went back to the
deserted square.
The clerk was behind the counter and gave him his key, "You was with the
circus, wasn't you?" he asked.
"Yes, but how could you tell?" Charles answered.
"Oh, by your clothes," the young man replied. "All of you fellers look
different from common folks, somehow; your hats, shirts, shoes ain't the
sort we-all wear. Then you are as sunburnt as gipsies. You've quit 'em,
I reckon!"
"Yes," Charles told him. "I'm going to try something else. I want to
work on a farm if I can get a job."
"Easy enough, the Lord knows," said the clerk, smiling broadly.
"Farm-hands are awfully scarce; niggers all moving off. Now I come to
think of it, I heard to-day of a job that is open. Miss Mary Rowland is
stopping here in the house now. In fact, I think she came in town to
catch some of the floating labor brought in by the show. I know she
didn't go to either performance. She is a friend of Mrs. Quinby, the
wife of the feller that runs this hotel, and when she comes in town she
always puts up with us. She is a fine girl and a hard worker. The
Rowlands are one of our oldest and best families, but run down at the
heel, between you and me. Her daddy lost a hand in the Civil War, and
can't work himself. He's got two boys, and take it from me they are the
limit. The wildest young bucks in seven states. The old man don't know
how to handle 'em, and Miss Mary has give up trying. If she can keep 'em
out o' jail she will be satisfied."
Not being in the mood to enjoy the clerk's gossip, Charles sought his
room and went to bed. It was somewhat cooler now and he soon fell
asleep. He was waked at nine o'clock by the sound of some enormous
trunks being trundled into the sample-room set aside for the use of
commercial travelers across the hall from his own chamber, and, rising
hurriedly, he went down-stairs. He was quite hungry and afraid that he
might be too late to be served with breakfast. The same clerk was on
duty; he smiled and nodded.
"I kept your breakfast for you," he said. "The dining-room is closed,
but we make exceptions once in a while. Walk right in--just give the
door a shove. I'll go in the kitchen and have you waited on. You take
coffee, I reckon?"
Charles said he did, and went into the big, many-tabled room adjoining
the office. The clerk followed and passed into the kitchen through a
screened door.
He appeared again in a moment. "It will be right in," he said. "You can
set right here by the window. This seat ain't taken. We've got a lot of
town boarders. It helps out, I'm here to state. They get a low cut rate
by the month, but it brings in money in the long run. Say, you remember
you said you were looking for a job on some farm? That young lady I was
telling you about, Miss Mary Rowland, was at breakfast just now, and I
told her about you. She was powerfully interested, for, between you and
me, she is in a hole for want of labor out her way. She missed fire in
every attempt she made yesterday. She trotted about town all day, and
had to give it up. She begged me to see you. She went out about half an
hour ago to do some trading at the dry-goods stores. She said tell you
she'd be at Sandow & Lincoln's 'most all morning, and hoped you'd come
in there. I'll tell you one thing--you will be treated right out there
if you do go, and they will feed you aplenty and give you a clean bed to
sleep in. You just tell her Sam Lee sent you--everybody about here knows
Sam Lee--and if you just said 'Sam' it would do as well. I get up all
the dances for the young folks here in this room. We shove the tables
back ag'in' the wall, hire a nigger fiddler and guitar-picker, and have
high old times at least once a month. You see Mrs. Quinby favors that
because it makes a pile of drummers lie over here, and they pay the top
rate. What do they care? Expense-account stretches to any size."
Charles promised to look Miss Rowland up, and, being needed in the
office, Sam Lee hastened away. Charles enjoyed his breakfast. The food
was an agreeable change from the fare of which he had grown tired in the
dining-tent of the circus. The clean white plates and dishes appealed to
him by contrast to the scratched and dented tin ones the canvasmen had
been obliged to use. The eggs, butter, and ham seemed to be fresh from
the mountain farms; the coffee was fine, clear, and strong; the cream
was thick and fresh; the bread was hot biscuits just from the range.