THE FLYING MACHINE
Breakfast was a much better meal than Jack had expected, from knowing
the hurried manner in which it must have had to be prepared and
under what adverse circumstances. But he was to learn that a circus
cannot afford not to feed its employees and performers well, and that
the preparation and cooking of meals had been reduced to a science.
Large stoves were carried on wagons, the sides of which dropped down,
making a regular kitchen. Soup was cooked in immense caldrons, and the
supplies, which had been contracted for in advance, the bread, meat,
milk, vegetables, as well as fodder for the animals, had been brought
to the circus grounds by local dealers before daylight.
“I’m glad we’ve had good weather this week,” observed Sam as he
finished his third cup of coffee.
“Why? Did it rain much before I joined?” asked Jack, feeling somewhat
of a veteran already, though it was only his second day with the show.
“Did it? Well, I should crack my grease paint!” Which was the clown’s
way of remarking that he should smile. “It rained for three days
straight.”
“And you have to show in the rain, I suppose?”
“Rain or shine, we go on. Only it’s not much fun. It’s cold and dreary,
and the crowds don’t laugh worth a cent. The sunshine for mine, every
time.”
Jack wondered whether he had better tell his friend what he had
overheard near the hippopotamus wagon, but he decided he had better
try to fight his own battles, or, at least, wait until he needed help
against the schemes of his enemies.
For Jack was convinced that Ted Chester would endeavor to do him some
injury. If not a physical one, the vindictive clown would probably try
to interfere with Jack when the boy was doing his turn in the ring.
This would cause him to fail to make the audience laugh, and he might
get discharged.
“I’ll keep away from the side of the ring where Ted is,” thought the
young clown. “I suppose I’ve got to be on the watch against that
ringmaster, too. His whip certainly hurts. If he hits me again I’ll
tell Sam. I’m not going to stand it.”
Jack found there was nothing special for him to do until the street
parade was ready to start. This had been omitted in the town they had
just left, as the place was not considered important enough for such
a demonstration. Here, however, one was to be given, and Jack learned
that all the clowns were to ride on top of a big gilded wagon, each one
playing some grotesque musical instrument.
“But I can’t play anything but a mouth organ,” the boy had objected to
Sam, who told him what was expected of him.
“That doesn’t make any difference. We only make all the noise we can on
battered horns, broken drums and all the odd things the property man
can get together. I’ll give you a trumpet. All you’ll have to do is to
blow it as loud as you can.”
Jack thought this would be easy enough, and he soon retired to the
dressing-tent to make-up for the street parade. The big wagon on which
the clowns were to ride was hauled by eight prancing horses, and when
Jack saw it, and knew he was to be on it, he felt a sense of pride that
he had so soon been able to make a place for himself in such a big
aggregation as a circus.
“All clowns this way!” cried Sam Kyle as he came from the
dressing-tent. “Here are your instruments.”
The funnily-attired and painted men, including our hero, gathered
around their leader, who handed out such a collection of
noise-producing apparatus as was seldom seen. Each one had once been
a musical instrument, but time and accident, in some cases purposely
done, had changed the character of them. Now they produced nothing but
discordant sounds.
“All ready!” called Sam. “Get up!”
The clowns began to ascend to the top of the high wagon, which was
fitted with cross-seats.
“Come! come! Hurry up!” cried Mr. Paine, running up to the clowns’
wagon. “The parade ought to have started an hour ago.”
“We’re all ready,” replied Sam.
“Step lively!” added another voice, and there came a crack like a
pistol shot. At the same time Jack felt a stinging pain in his hip. He
turned in time to see Otto Mitz, the ringmaster, swinging his vicious
whip. The man did not have on his dress-suit, but was ordinarily
attired.
Jack started with the sudden pain, and Ted Chester laughed heartily.
“That’s the way to wake him up,” he said.
“Don’t you do that again, Mitz!” exclaimed Sam Kyle, for he had seen
the mean act.
“I guess I will if I like. I’m practicing.”
“Then you try it on yourself,” added Sam angrily.
“I’ll try it on you if I feel like it,” went on the ringmaster.
Sam, with a suddenness that took Mitz by surprise, rushed up to him,
grabbed the whip from his hand and threw it to one side.
“I wouldn’t advise you to,” he said quietly. “Don’t you flick that lad
again with your whip.” And then he turned and began to ascend the wagon.
There was an ominous silence about the clowns’ wagon, and more than
one expected to see a fight between the ringmaster and Sam. But Mitz,
with a deep flush on his face, walked over, picked up his whip, and
disappeared into the dressing-tent.
“He’ll have it in for you, Sam,” remarked a jolly, fat little clown.
“I’m not afraid of him,” replied Sam. “He’s too free with his whip, and
it’s time some one told him so. Did he hurt you much?” he asked of Jack
in a low voice.
“Not much,” replied the lad, though the truth was the lash had bitten
deep, and he had had hard work to refrain from crying out. But he
bravely repressed his feelings.
Then the band on the wagon struck up, the steam calliope began to play,
and the parade started. Soon the procession was in the midst of the
streets of a fair-sized city. Jack, doing as he saw Sam and the other
clown do, blew as loudly as possible on his trumpet. The grotesque
music raised many a laugh, as did the funny antics of the clowns.
At times some of them stood up and made elaborate bows, as if in answer
to applause, while others did little dance steps. But Jack sat silent,
save when he blew the trumpet. He was beginning to see the darker side
of the circus life.
“Be a little livelier,” whispered the clown next to him. “There’s no
telling when the old man is watching.”
By the “old man” was meant Manager Paine, though no disrespect was
intended by this title. Thus urged, Jack tried to be gay and to cut
some of his funny tricks, but it was with no light heart. He realized
now what it meant to have to amuse a crowd when one felt the least like
it.
He was glad when the parade was over and he could go back to the circus
grounds. Sam told him he could take off his clown dress and wash up, as
it would be several hours until the afternoon performance.
“A good dinner will make you feel better,” said the head clown to the
boy, for he understood how the lad felt, as he had heard Jack’s story
and had taken an unusual liking to him.
Our hero did feel better after the meal, and he looked forward, with
something akin to real pleasure, to the performance in which he was to
take part. The big tent was up now, and was gay with many-colored flags
and banners. Jack strolled around to the side shows, and was amused in
getting a near view of the freaks, for he was a privileged character
now.
“Well, boy, I’ll have that flying machine for you sooner than I
expected,” said a voice at his elbow, and he turned to see Mr.
Delafield, the property man. “I was speaking to Mr. Paine about it, and
he thinks it a good idea. I’ll have it for you the first of the week.
We strike Stewartsville then, and that’s quite a town. Suppose you come
over to my tent and we’ll take a look at what I’ve got done. Maybe you
can suggest something.”
This gave a new turn to Jack’s thoughts. He found that the property man
had carried out his ideas exactly, for Jack had made a rough sketch of
what he wanted to introduce into his act.
The flying machine consisted of a big muslin bag, shaped like a cigar,
and held distended by barrel hoops. This was to make it look as if
filled with gas. Above it was a big Japanese umbrella, while below it
was a sort of harness, holding a seat, which Jack could sit astride of.
On either side were big, tough paper-covered wings, working on hinges,
and they could be operated by his feet. The handle of the big umbrella
extended down through the distended muslin bag, so that Jack could
grasp it with both hands.
His plan was, after going through some funny stunts, to pretend to
pump up the bag with air. Then he would carry the “flying machine”
to the top of a small, light platform, which had been made for the
purpose. After some further odd mannerisms he would jump to the ground,
a distance of about thirty feet. The big umbrella he calculated would
allow him to land without injury, and as he descended he would work the
paper wings with his feet, giving a fairly good imitation of a person
flying.
“What do you think of it?” asked Mr. Delafield. “Of course, it will be
all painted up in bright colors before you use it.”
“It’s fine!” exclaimed Jack enthusiastically. “I wish it was ready now.”
“There’s quite a lot of work on it yet,” said the property man. “But
I’ll have it for you the first of the week. I hope you make a hit with
it.”
“I will if I don’t come down too heavy.”
“Oh, that umbrella will hold you all right. You’ll come down as easy as
a piece of paper. I’ll make it good and strong.”
“Hello! hello! hello! What’s this? What terror-inspiring bird of prey
from the towering peaks of the Andes Mountains is about to perform
before an awe-struck multitude for the first time in the history of the
world?” asked another voice, and Jack and Mr. Delafield looked up to
see the fat, jolly countenance of Nolan Waddleton, the “adjective man.”
“Oh, this is a new machine for a flying clown,” explained the property
man. “Jack is going to spring something different.”
“Ah, I must have that for my posters,” said Mr. Waddleton. “That will
be quite a drawing card. I need something fresh and new. Let’s see.
Nerve-thrilling trip through the terrestrial----No, that won’t do.
You’re going to keep off the earth. Through the towering--no, I’ve used
that before. Oh, can’t you give me a couple of adjectives, some of
you?” and he looked appealingly at Sam and Jack.
“How would ‘Startling sensation of a Simple Simon sailing serenely,
supereminently and satisfactorily over the heads of a startled,
strabismus-struck, sensation-satiated assemblage in an admirably
adapted aeroplane’ strike you?” asked Mr. Delafield.
“Excellent! superb! lovely! marvelous! That’ll do first-rate!”
exclaimed the “adjective man” enthusiastically. “I must write that
down. We’ll have you on the bills soon,” he added, turning to Jack.