PEACE AND THE TRAVELLING SHOWMAN――THE COMPANY AT THE “BLUE DOLPHIN”――THE
SHOWMAN’S LEGEND.
Peace had not gone very far before he came up with a travelling
caravan.
The vehicle in question was going at a slow pace, it was heavy and
cumbersome, being, in fact, a sort of wooden home on wheels.
Peace could not at first quite make out what it was, but upon closer
inspection he came to the conclusion that it was a show, such as one
sees at fairs. The driver was seated in front of the vehicle trolling
a merry ditty.
“Good night, my friend,” said Peace.
“An’ good night to you,” returned the driver. “Bedad, but this is not
the most lively road for a man to thravel.”
“No,” said Peace, “it is not; but you have the advantage of me. I have
many miles to travel on foot, and I am as tired as a dog. You couldn’t
give a chap a lift, I suppose? I’ll pay for the accommodation.”
“Faith, and may be I could; but who and what are you?”
“A traveller――a poor hawker.”
“Och! Sure now, I aint the man to refuse a favour o’ that sort. Which
way are you going?”
“Anyway, as long as I can get a lodging for the night.”
“You seem a quiet, dacent, sort of man, and, as the saying is, any
company is better than none, so jump up――you can ride by the side of
me.”
“I am sure, you are very kind,” cried Peace.
The caravan driver brought his vehicle to a halt, and Peace was but
too thankful to avail himself of the offer.
When he had taken his seat the lumbering wooden house was again set in
motion.
“An’ sure it’s not much room there is for the dhriver and his frinds
on this mighty big machine. But there’s good reason for that――the room
is wanted for the inside passengers.”
“Inside passengers!”
“By the powers of St. Patrick, yes! and not much to spare, either.”
“What have you got inside, then?”
“What! why great natheral coorosities――sarpints, kangaroos, a baboon,
and a few monkeys. Oh, they are amoosing crathurs, an’ as sinsible as
Christhins.”
“Oh, I dare say.”
“The guv’ has gone on in the other caravans to the fair, which is to
take place――bedad, I don’t know rightly where it’s to take place, but
I’m to be there some time to-morrow.”
“Oh, you’re in the travelling show line, are you?”
“The guv’nor is――I’m only an ondherstrapper, as you may call it――a
sort of handy man. But there’s a power of work to get through in one
way and another.”
“Then where are you now bound for?”
“Is it where I am goin’ you mane?”
“Yes.”
“Och, sure, but it’s at a bit of a roadside house I’m afther making
for――‘The Blue Dolphin.’”
“And where is that situated?”
“Where? Sure, now, an’ it’ll be about a mile or so this side of
Pocklington.”
“Ah,” said Peace, remembering the name of Pocklington but too well.
It was a Mrs. Pocklington who prosecuted him for attempted burglary,
and who had committed such a ferocious assault on him with a house
broom.
“But may be you don’t know the place. The name is not familiar to
you.”
“Ah! but it is most familiar,” returned Peace; “and if they can
accommodate me, I think I will put up at the ‘Blue Dolphin.’”
“Ah! bedad, but they must accommodate you. They’re dacent people
enough, and aint particular at all, at all.”
The two chatted familiarly during the whole of the journey, and the
conversation did not flag or come to a conclusion till the house in
question was reached.
Mr. Dennis Macarty――that was the name of its driver――who was, it is
perhaps needless to say, a native of the “Emerald Isle”――took good
care to see his animals safely housed for the night, and after this
had been done he joined Peace in the snug little parlour of the
establishment.
Mr. Macarty seemed to be well known to the landlord the landlady, as
well as the frequenters of the house, all of whom addressed him in a
familiar and friendly manner.
“And how’s business, Mr. Macarty?” inquired a sedate-looking little
man in the public room.
“Och, murdher, it’s mighty bad, intirely, aud has bin so for a goodish
while. We’ve got some of the most intherestin’ natheral coorosities,
but they don’t dhraw as they ought. May be we do a roaring business in
wan town or at wan fair, but the next two or three places are, bad
luck to ’em, that bad that we dhrop a power of money. Och, by Jabers,
things are not what they used to be.”
“And you’ve seen a goodish bit in your time?” said another of the
guests.
“Bin all over the world――no, I don’t quite mane that, but I’ve bin
everywhere in the United Kingdom. But people seem to have lost heart.”
“That’s true enough――we all find that out,” cried Peace; “at least I
find it so in my line.”
“An’ what might that be, if it’s a fair question?” said the sedate
little man.
“An’ sure it’s in the hawkin’ line that our frind is,” returned
Macarty.
As the steaming glasses of whiskey and water went round, the company
became loquacious and assumed a festive character.
Mr. Macarty was full of anecdote. He had stories to tell which
elicited roars of laughter, and was voted a most genial companion,
which, to say the truth, he most unquestionably was.
After treating them with several amusing anecdotes, he all at once
came to a halt, and said sharply――
“Och, sure now, did I ever tell ye about the biggest man in all
Ireland?”
“No, never!” cried several.
“I never did?”
“No.”
“Then, bedad, I’ll tell it ye now.”
“Ah, do, Macarty; let’s have it.”
It’s a sort of legend, and may be ye never heard anything of the kind.
It’s all about Jack Grady and the joiant. First and foremost ye must
know Jack was mighty proud ov his size, and ov bein’, as he used to
say, the greatest man in all Ireland, an’ sure enough he was
tremendious big. He was more nor seven feet in hoigth, so I’ve been
tould, and had a carcass on him like an eighteen-gallon kag.
“Oh, draw it mild!”
Ah, but I wouldn’t desave you, it’s thrue for him. Well, one day when
Jack comes thrampin’ down into Leenane, to get himself measured for a
pair of brogues, for he was mighty savin’ upon shoe leather, by raison
of his weight, he goes into the shop of the brogue maker, wan Farrell
by name, a little atom of a man, wid a sharp tongue of his own, who
used to take grate divarsion out of big Jack, by gibin’ him an’ makin’
all sorts of dhroll collusions to his bulk and diminsions.
“Top of the mornin’ to you, Jack,” says Farrell.
“I think you might say Misther Grady to yer betthers,” returns Jack.
“My bethers! What d’ye say?” cries the little man. “And for why, now?
Is it becase yer big and bulky, and ate more bacon for yer breakfast
than would kape a family for a week? Arrah! what good are ye at all,
at all, except in filling house room? And, for the mathter of that, I
saw a biggar man than you are only yesterday, an’ he hadn’t half your
consate.”
“That’s a big lie, anyhow,” says Jack――“a regular whopper.
Botheration, but everyone knows that I’m the biggest man in all
Ireland.”
“Devil a lie,” cried the other. “There’s a biggar and finer man than
you in Ballinrobe this minnit, and what do you think they are doin’
wid him? Why, they are showin’ him to the people for twopence in a
raree show, just as they do wid the wild bastes. Bedad, if you are
wise you’ll go and show yourself for twopence. It’s all you are good
for.”
“You dirthy spalpeen. By St. Patrick, but I’ll dust yer jacket for
your impidence,” and with these words Jack makes a wipe at him wid a
bit of a stick he used to carry――it was like the mast of a Galway
hooker was that same switch.
But ye see, my friends, the little brogue maker was as nimble as a
bounding acrobat, an’ he skipped away just in time, an’ Jack almost
knocked out the wall of the cabin wid the whack he gave.
Well, he knew of ould there was no ketchin’ Farrell to gi’ him a
basting, so he made it up wid him, for, to give him his jew, he never
bore malice, and was a grate dacent sort of man.
“Och, look here, now, I don’t want any more of your mighty big lies,
so kape your tongue betwane yer teeth, and measure me for the
brogues.”
Farrell obeyed, and his customer left, but he was mighty unasy in his
mind about the man at Ballinrobe.
“What ails you?” said his wife, upon his return. “Ye don’t same
yerself at all at all.”
“Don’t consarn yerself about me,” cried Jack. “I’m right enough.”
But his wife knew betther. She axed him to sit down to supper, but he
refused――and he refused also to take a shaugh at his pipe, he was that
heavy in his heart.
“Maybe he’s fallen in love wid some forward jade he’s met wid,”
murmured his wife.
Jack was quiet, silent, and a bit thoughtful――an’ whin he turned into
bed, he says, “Waken me airly for I’ve got a thransaction at
Ballinrobe,” and wid that he goes to slape, detarmined to make a
complate discovery of the whole matther before he was a day oulder.
In the mornin’ he set off for Ballinrobe; but as bad luck would have
it, when he got there, the carrywan wid the joiant was gone and all
that they could tell him was that it tuk the Castlebar road.
Off goes our frind post haste widout waitin’ to take bite or sup, and
at last about six miles out of the town he sees the carrywan standin’
by the roadside.
It was a big yalla chay made in the shape of a house, wid an illigant
hall door and glass windies to it, and “O’Shannasey’s Pavilion” wrote
in big letthers over them, an’ the people belongin’ to it was sittin’
on the grass by the side of the road aitin’ their dinner aff the top
of the big dhrum, an’ sure now I was one of those, for I first larnt
my business wid old O’Shannasey.
The guv’nor was there as well, and a mighty clever fellow he was, too.
He used to do thricks wid knives and forks, and crumple a large buck
rabbit quite small and put it in his wesket pocket.
“Oh, I say,” cried one of the audience.
Oh, divil a bit am I afther spaking ony unthruth. He done it as asy as
anythin’, and there was a north countryman wid one leg, who was mighty
handy at a Highland fling, which was a bit of a cooriosity for a
cripple, you’ll all acknowledge.
“Ah, yes, certainly,” exclaimed several. “Anybody else?”
Sartinly. There was a young woman who used to dance in throusors wid
frills to them, and take the money in a tambourine when the people
went to see the show. An’ people did go to see shows in those days.
Besides all thase there was the joiant, but the moment they saw Jack
Grady comin’ puffin’ down the road, they made him lave off actin’, and
crawl into the carywan, not likin’ to let him be seen too chape.
“Health and prosperity to ye all,” says Grady.
“And bedad the same to ye, sir, an’ the top of the mornin’ to ye,”
cried the showman.
“An’ sure now I’ve bin tould that ye have a joiant in yer show. If
this be so, might one jest ha’ a look at ’im?”
“By the powers, you’re a bit of a joiant yerself I’m afther thinkin’,”
says a young woman, laughing at him quite pleasant.
“Them’s my raisons, my darl――――, that’s to say miss,” says Grady, very
respectfully, for he was struck intirely wid her, never seeing the
like afore. She was a weeshy little crathur, dressed out wid fine
ribbons, wid a sallow face, and a spot ov ruddle on each cheek like a
poppy in a corn field. But then she had a purty nate foot, and them
was faymale accomplishments Jack was mighty partial to.
Well, my frinds, to make a long story short, when they hard he had
come all that way to see the joiant they agreed to let him have a look
for a bob, tuppence being the regular price on show days, but this was
a private view, and cheap at a bob.
So the long man was brought out, an’ he an’ Jack stud up beside aich
other, an’ sure enough, Grady wasn’t within a head of him, but then he
wasn’t within three feet as big round the body as Jack, and when they
came to talk of sthrength and fell a wrastling, Jack threw him on his
back with the greatest aise.
Jack was quite plazed at overcomin’ the tall un――so much so, indeed,
that he got quite friendly wid the whole ov us, more especially wid
the young woman, and when the one-legged man pulled out a pack of
cards and proposed a game he went in, as good manners dictated, and av
coorse got rooked most awful.
No wondher; he was wake as wather when girls was present, and instead
of mindin’ his play he was carryin’ on wid the young woman, and she
encouragin’ him, all to spite the long un, who was by way of courtin’
her. While this was goin’ on the showman was eyein’ Jack, and
remarkin’ “how thunderin’ big he was.”
“He’d make a mighty good property,” says he to the one-legged man.
“That he would, sir, and no mistake,” says I.
“The other fellow won’t last long,” said O’Shannasey. “He’s gettin’
quite wake on his legs.”
“He niver was sthrong on thim,” says the cripple; “but he says it
comes from lyin’ doubled up in the carywan.”
“That’s all blather,” says O’Shannasey; “it’s goin’ he is. I wish we
had this chap in his place, so as not to be left widout a joiant at
all.”
“I wondher could we coax him to jine us?” says Wan Leg.
“I much doubt it,” returned the showman.
“See,” says I “how Biddy is puttin’ the comether on him. Suppose we
give her a hint. She’s the divil for deludhering, anyhow.”
“You see what ye can do wid her.”
Upon the first opportunity I took Biddy aside, and made her sinsible,
and explained my maning to her, and then the cards was put away, and a
dhrop of the “crathur” brought out, and they all fell to dhrinkin’.
“I don’t know if any ov you here have remarked that big men never
stand the dhrink.”
“I have often remarked it,” cried Peace. “They seldom do.”
Well, then, he was no exception, but the rason must be that he’d bin
fastin’, not forgettin’ also that the young woman never let his glass
stand empty. Jack was very soon obfusticated.
Then they all got into the carrywan, Jack hooraing like anything.
Then they had some more of the “crathur,” until Jack tumbles on the
floor speechless.
“You gev him too much,” says the showman.
“Devil a bit,” says Biddy; “you lave him to me.”
So they doubled up Jack and crammed him into a part of the carrywan
that was made for the great say sarpint, and put a stuffed mermaid
under his head for a pillow.
When they got into Castlebar Jack was sleepin’ beautiful, so they left
him quiet and paceable where he was; and in the morning, when the
people began to clusther round the consarn to see the coorosities he
was sleeping still.
Well, there was no cause to rouse him, for the say sarpint he was
lying with couldn’t be exhibited in regard to being bruk to pieces by
the joultin’ of the machine over the bad roads.
So the showman began callin’ the people to step up and see the great
Portugee joiant an’ the Injin jugglar (maynin’ himself――the ould
imposther!), and the grate rowling picther of the goold diggins, and
the rest of the wondherful things, every wan of them lies, more or
less.
“Plenty of the more, and very little of the less,” said Peace.
“Oh, bedad, that’s thrue enough,” returned Mr. Macarty. Well, the
wan-legged man took to futtin’ it in the Highland fling, and pounding
away like a pavior on his wooden leg, and Biddy all the time turnin’
the handle of a machine like a young winnowing machine, and gettin’
illigant music out of the same. It wasn’t long before the people began
to step up in earnest. First one and two, then in bunches, till the
intarior of the carrywan was nigh thronged. I wish they’d do the same
thing now. But the wan-legged man every now and then would quit
dancin’ and come inside and pack them like pickled herrins, to make
room for more; puttin’ all the tall ones in the back, an’ all the
short ones in front. Well, while they wor waitin’, an’ the showman
outside screechin’ always that he was just goin’ to begin, whether it
was the trampin’ an’ the talkin’ that woke him, I dunna, but anyhow
Jack began to mutter to himself, an’ snore that sthrong that the whole
convaniency thrimbled.
“My, oh,” says the people, “what’s that?”
An’ some said it was the Injin juggler; an’ more said it was some
other wild baste roarin’.
“I’m fearful,” says one.
“I’ll not stay,” says another.
“Here, misther, let me out,” says another.
“What’s the matther?” says the showman.
Whin they tould him, he was fairly amplushed, not knowin’ how to get
out of it, for he was afeard of ruinin’ the characther of the show,
eyther by lettin’ them go in a fright, or lettin’ on that it was only
a dhrunken man.
“Lave it to me,” says the wan-legged man in a whisper.
“Leedies an’ jintlemin,” says he, “reshume yer pleeces. There’s no
call for alarum at all at all,” says he.
“What is it?” says they.
“The Royal Bingal tigyer,” says he.
That was enough for some of them.
“Here, give us back our money,” says they, “an’ let us get shut of the
roarin’ baste.”
“There’s no money returned,” says he.
“Well, we won’t stay to be ate for the lucre of tuppence,” says they.
“He won’t ate ye,” says he.
“For why not?” says they.
“Beca’se he’s a studdy, responsible baste,” says he. “I tell you,”
says he, “he’s the royal Bingal tigyer prisinted to the Queen by the
Imperor of Chany, an’ our propriethur is now taking him home to her
Majesty, an’ he’s confined wid six big goolden chains an’ a padlock.”
Well, whin they heard that an’ about the chains they wor tuck wid a
curiosity to see him. But no, sorrow a sight would wan-leg give them.
“It ud be high thrayson,” says he, “to make a show of a baste that’s
the Royal property, and av it kem to the Lord Leftinint’s ears he
might cut the head off the propriethur;” and in coorse this made them
all the more rampagious to get a look at the baste.
How and however, at last he purtinded to come round.
“I durstn’t show him to yez,” says he, “but there’s a chink here
convanient to the door, and if any lady or gintleman gives me tuppence
more ov coorse I can’t purwint them from peeping through it;” the
cunning bla-guard knowin’ well in his heart that all they could see by
raison of the darkness was the tip of Jack’s nose and the knees of his
small-clothes as he lay doubled up foreninst them.
As ye may guess, the tuppences kem in middlin’ lively, and the people
was five deep at the chink in a brace of shakes.
“Oh, dear, oh!” says one, “do ye mind his eye. It’s as red as a coal
o’ fiyer.”
“Hut, man, that’s his nose,” says another.
“An’ the big legs he has of his own!” says another.
“Are they sthriped?” says one in the back, “I’m told tigyers is
sthriped all over.”
“Bedad, they are,” says the other, “for all the world like cordheroy.”
An’ so they wint on, the crathurs, though sorrow a much could they see
barrin’ a big lump of somethin’ gruntin’ in a corner. But they didn’t
like lettin’ on to one another that they hadn’t got the worth of their
money.
Maintime the news flew like wildfiyer through the town, an’ man,
woman, an’ child, gentle an’ simple, kem crowdin’ up to look at the
royal Bingal tigyer, and wid them kem one Mullins, a grate ould miser
of a chap.
To be sure he began castin’ about for some way of seein’ the tigyer
chape, so what does he do but when no one was lookin’ he creeps in
undher the wheels of the carrywan, and begins thryin’ for a chink of
his own, and as good luck would have it he finds a hole where a boult
had fallen out of the boords, just convanient to Jack’s ear.
As he was looking through this he hears Jack talkin’ an’ grumblin’ to
himself in his sleep. So he cocks his ear and listens. “Faix,” says
he, “you’re a dhroll Bengal tigyer. May I never if it isn’t Irish he’s
spaking.” And with that he takes a bit of a sthraw and prods Jack in
the jaw. “Ow!” says Jack. “That was a grate roar,” says the people
inside.
“What are ye, at all?” says Mullins in a whisper.
“I’m the greatest man in all Ireland,” says Jack, dhrowsy-like.
“Throth, then, ye don’t take up much room av ye are,” says Mullins.
“Thrue for ye,” says Jack, “I’m bint double like a cod in a pot, wid
my heels in my mouth a’most.”
“An’ what brought ye there?” says Mullins.
“Erra, how do I know?” says Jack, goin aff to sleep again.
“Do you know where ye are, avick?” says Mullins.
“Sorra a know I know,” says Jack; “may be it’s in Purgathory I am, for
my head is shplittin’ in two halves, an’ I’m a’most desthroyed wid a
pain in the small o’ my back. Moreover, my tongue’s as dhry as the
flure of a lime-kiln. Av it’s in Abraham’s bosom ye are there, give us
a dhrink o’ wather an’ I’ll be obleeged to ye.”
“Sure, it’s a mighty big mishtake you’re a making,” says Mullins.
“You’re not in glory. Aren’t ye in O’Shannasey’s Pavilion, and aint
the people a-lookin’ at ye for tuppence a head?”
Well, my frinds, when the mention of that an’ the tuppence sthruck
Jack’s ear, he remimbered all of a suddint all about it, an’ how
little Farrell was gibin’ him wid bein’ only fit for a peep-show.
An’ wid that he lets wan roar out of him ye’d have hard at the other
ind o’ the barony, an’ sthraitened himself powerful.
The timbers of the carrywan wasn’t over sthrong, an’ they shplit an’
cracked wid a noise like tundher, an’ the dacent people begins
screechin’ “The tigyer――the tigyer!” an’ goes rowlin’ and tumblin’
down the stips for all the world like pitatees spilt out of a creel.
Sich murdher never was seen since Castlebar was a town, wid the hurry
they were in.
An’ maybe the showman wasn’t in as big a fright as any of them, for
all he knew it was a Christin an’ no tigyer; an’ faix he tuk to
runnin’ as well as the rest of them.
And so did Wan-leg, but in his hurry he druv his wooden leg into the
dhrum, which delayed him.
Whin Jack got himself loose, the first thing he done was to go and
bate the jiant, for, as he said aftherwards, it was all along of him
that he got into the shcrape at all. An’ he bate him that wicked that
it’s my belief he’d be batin’ him this minnit av it wasn’t for the
young woman that wint down on her two binded knees to him not to kill
him all out.
So he wint at the wan-legged man, but he being a cripple, an’ more
betoken entangled wid the dhrum, there was no glory in batin’ him; so
Jack threw him an’ dhrum body an’ bones into the sthreet, and wint
ragin’ afther the propriethur to bate him.
Well, the end o’ the matther was that Jack had to go before the
magisthrates that was sittin’ at petty sisshins that same day for
assault and batthery, and ruinin’ the property of Mr. O’Shannasey; but
the magisthrates said sarve him right, an’ if he summonsed Jack for
tattherin’ his consarn Jack might summons him for false imprisonment――so
it was even betune them, an’ dismissed the case.
But Jack was never the same man afther. It tuck all the pride out of
him to be made a tuppenny raree-show. And many a time aftherwards he
used to say, in the bittherness of his heart, that was all a big man
was good for nowadays, when there was no fightin’ or any other
divarshin going on.
The occupants of the parlour of the “Blue Dolphin” were greatly amused
at the story told by the loquacious and genial Mr. Macarty, who, to
say the truth, had no inconsiderable amount of ability in giving
effect to a humorous narrative.
“But did it really occur?” inquired one of the company.
“Did it? Why, ov coorse,” returned Macarty. “Do you think I’d be
afther invintin’ a pack of lies? Sure I was there at the time myself,
an’ remember it as if it tuk place only yistherdy.”
“You must draw a line of course,” remarked the little man.
“Och, but we niver dhraw a line in our business, divil a bit,” said
the showman. “I don’t suppose any ov yez have the slightest idaya of
the devices and fakements we have to resort to. Why a legitimate an’
genuine article in many cases does not atthract half as well as a
‘fake.’ Every exhibitor knows that. Faith, you may draw a line as much
as you plaze, but a man who undherstands his business will soon jump
over it, or else bedad he’ll have to starve. It’s the same in
iverythin’.”
“That’s right enough,” said Peace. “A ‘fake’ will do more than a
legitimate thing. I’ll just give you a case in point. My father was a
showman, or rather head man to one. He was a tamer of wild beasts.”
“Your father! Ochone, I thought you were a boy after my own heart when
I first met you,” cried Macarty. “Bedad, we must have a friendly glass
together at my expinse.”
Glasses were ordered.
Peace proceeded.
When my father was travelling with Kensett’s menagerie, and the
proprietor was doing a good business in most of the provincial towns,
business began to drop off in consequence of an opposition show
visiting the same places as Kensett’s. There was not room enough for
both at the same time, and Mr. Kensett as a natural consequence was
greatly annoyed. At one town the opposition shop (Barlow’s menagerie),
as it was termed, carried everything before them, the reason for this
being that they had one of the largest ourang-outangs that had ever
been brought to this country. The creature was said to bear a
remarkable resemblance to the human species, and crowds upon crowds
were to be seen daily making their way to Barlow’s establishment.
Kensett shifted his quarters, and moved on to the next town, under
cover of the night. He had not, however, been many hours there before
Barlow made his appearance. Poor man, he was perfectly furious when he
found that a similar course was adopted by his rival at other towns.
Business fell off painfully, and the question was what was to be done
under these perplexing circumstances. The ourang-outang was the
central point of attraction.
One evening, after a wretched day’s business, my father was smoking
his pipe with Mr. Kensett, who was at this time down in the
dumps――and, as you may imagine, my father was not in the best of
spirits. He had been performing with his wild animals to comparatively
empty benches.
“He’s potted us――knocked us out of time, that’s quite certain,” said
Mr. Kensett.
“He carries all before him,” returned my father, “and why? because
he’s got an ugly brute――the ugliest I ever saw――of the monkey tribe.
One never knows how to deal with the public. They are so capricious
and uncertain.”
“Uncertain be d――――d!” shouted Kensett, “there’s no mistake about the
matter! they are pretty certain to desert me for my rival――that is, as
far as we can see at present.”
“Luck may change, sir,” says my father.
“It may and it may not――more of the latter than the former. Ah, it’s a
bad look-out for the remainder of this tour.”
The two companions lapsed into silence for some little time after
this, and puffed away at their pipes.
Presently Kensett said, in a reflective manner――
“How about Old Jemmy?”
“About what, sir?” inquired my father.
“Old Jemmy.”
“I don’t know anything about him further than what you know.”
Mr. Kensett struck his knee in a self-satisfactory manner.
“I have it, old man,” he exclaimed. “A bright idea has occurred to me.
I have it. We will be down upon this Barlow, and take the wind out of
his sails, please the pigs.”
“I only wish we could,” says my father.
“But we will. Listen, you must transmogrify old Jemmy. He’ll do well
enough for a Pongo, or wild man of the woods, just arrived from
Africa.
“We’ll work the oracle, and double up Barlow.”
“How’s it to be done?” says my father.
“Shave his haunches, then colour them, encase the upper portion of his
body with long hair, shave his face and colour it in the most hideous
manner it is possible to conceive. I will get out large bills
announcing the arrival of a savage monster in this country, which is
exhibited now for the first time. ‘The missing link.’ Don’t you see?
Now I’ve given you the hint, and it only remains for you to carry it
out. No one so well adapted to manipulate a case of this sort. You’ll
be able to make something of him. Do your best, old man, and upset the
opposition shop.”
My father tumbled to the proposition at once.
“It shall be done, sir,” he said emphatically, “and we’ll take our
chance.”
Well, with that, on the following day he set to work.
Poor old Jemmy was a venerable specimen of the ape species, he had
been in the show for years, and was as tame and harmless as a kitten,
and would let you do anything with him.
The hair was shaved off his posteriors, a long, shaggy coat of
dark-brown hair was sewn round the upper portion of his body, the hair
on the lower portion of his face was clipped quite close, then his
face was coloured, and he was so completely metamorphosed that his own
mother would not have known him.
Taken altogether his appearance was at once extraordinary, and like
nothing that had ever been seen before or since, I think I may add.
A collar was put round his neck, to which a strong chain was attached,
and the end of the chain was attached to an iron bar running across
the back of the cage. By this means poor old Jemmy was kept in an
upright position and compelled to walk on his hind legs.
It was, no doubt, a sad trial to the poor brute, who, however, bore it
complacently enough. When all was in readiness Mr. Kensett shifted his
quarters to the next town, having previously beplastered its walls
with gigantic posters announcing the arrival of a large Pongo or wild
man of the woods, who was so fierce that visitors were cautioned not
to approach too near the bars of the cage.
Such a monster was surely never seen before. Jemmy was the very
personification of ugliness and ferocity.
Kensett’s show was thronged with visitors all day long, and there was
a perfect _furore_ with the populace, who expressed themselves
immensly pleased with the great natural zoological curiosity.
A history of the animal, how it was caught, the nature of its food and
general habits was given in a hand-bill presented to each visitor as
they entered the menagerie.
It was related how, in a visit of a British man-of-war to the island
of Borneo, a party of the sailors were permitted on shore, and entered
one of the dense forests which abound in that island.
After some time spent in the search for fruit the party came upon an
open glade, and right opposite them, where the forest again commenced,
they saw a tree violently shaken.
They rushed forward to ascertain the cause, and saw what they thought
was a native woman leap lightly from the tree and disappear in the
forest.
But a hairy monster remained in the tree, and seemed in a furious
passion, which was redoubled when he saw the sailors.
Breaking a branch from the tree, the wild man (for this was what he
was) bounded to the earth, faced the strangers, and then turned to
run.
But the tars had been too smart for him, and having surrounded him, he
was brought to bay and captured, after a sturdy use of the branch of
the tree.
The “history” went down very well with the women folks, for the writer
averred that when the wild man was first seen he was busy belabouring
his wife, and thus suffered capture.
Barlow came upon the scene of action and advertised his ourang outang,
which was really a fine specimen, but the creature paled before the
effulgence of his painted rival, and Kensett’s counterfoil brute
fairly eclipsed the one in the opposition shop. Barlow was furious.
He denounced Kensett as an impostor, and the rival showman had a
set-to in the market-place to the infinite diversion of the town’s
folk; but all was of no use――the “wild man of the woods,” “the missing
link,” as Kensett termed him, carried everything before him, and
Barlow’s show was comparatively deserted.
“Is it possible that people could be so silly as to be taken in with
such a barefaced imposture?” said one of the company.
“My dear sir,” returned Peace, “in this world are found people silly
enough for anything. But it was a barefaced imposture, I admit, seeing
that old Jemmy’s face had been shorn of its hair.”
“Och, by the powers!” cried Macarty, “people like to be humbugged and
imposed upon. Bedad it was a mighty clane thrick, and desarved to
sucsade.”
The good folks in the parlour of the “Blue Dolphin” had perhaps never
in their whole lives learned so much about the doings of showmen, and,
as a natural consequence, the evening passed away pleasantly enough.
After some further conversation the party broke up, and Peace and Mr.
Macarty repaired to their respective rooms.
Our hero, upon first entering the house, had requested to be shown
into the bedroom he was to occupy, saying that he wished to have a
wash; his real object, however, was to secrete the bag containing the
valuables he had purloined in some quiet corner.
He found in the room a chest of drawers, most of which were empty;
into one of these he placed his bag, then he closed the drawer, locked
it, and put the key in his pocket.
When this had been done he felt tolerably secure. It was not likely
that any person would break open the drawer for the purpose of
inspecting the contents of his bag.
He therefore returned to the public room, where he passed the evening
in the convivial manner already described.
Upon retiring for the night, he opened the drawer, and found his bag
in precisely the same position as he had left it.
He therefore tumbled into bed and slept soundly till the morning.
Upon proceeding downstairs he found, upon inquiry, that his picked-up
friend Macarty had risen some hour or so before.
He was at this time in the stable, attending to the inmates of his
wooden house.
He greeted our hero in a most cordial manner, and after his animals
and reptiles had been fed, returned to the breakfast-room of the
establishment with Peace.
“We gave our friends a good dose of jaw last night,” said our hero,
with a smile.
“Och, sure it’s just as well to kape the game alive. I make it a rule
to be friendly and familiar wid all people. There’s no tellin’ what
one may want, and a good word from the natives of a town or village
may be of sarvice to men of my kidney――but see, breakfast is ready,
let’s fall to.”
A very substantial repast had been provided by the hostess of the
“Blue Dolphin,” to which the hungry travellers did justice to.
When the meal was over, Mr. Macarty, who was evidently a man of
business, made preparations to start on his journey.
“You are in a great hurry to be off, my friend,” said Peace. “Have you
far to go?”
“Arrah, an’ it’s not far; but the governor doesn’t like to be kept
waitin’; besides we’ve a power of work to do before we let in the
British public――that is, if they will come in, an’ bad luck to them.”
“Good luck to you and yours,” cried Peace; “and may you prosper, as I
am sure you deserve to do. Any way, I have to return you my most
heartfelt thanks for your kindness――to say nothing of your company.”
“By jabers, you’re puttin’ the pot on in the blarney line, anyhow,”
returned Macarty; “but we undherstand each other intirely, and good
luck to you, and many on ’em.”
Peace laughed, and said――
“Well, I’m sorry to part with you, but there is, I suppose, no help
for it?”
“Faix, an’ there is,” returned Macarty. “You can make shift wid the
same sate ye had last night, and maybe ye’ll be a bit more on your
journey when you raich Pocklington.”
“Pocklington!”
“Ah, shure. I don’t know where ye are bhound for, but maybe one place
is as good as another to a hawker.”
“Oh it don’t much matter which road I travel for the matter of that,
and since you are so pressing I’ll accept your kind offer.”
“An’ its welcome ye are――as welcome as the flowers in May.”
The caravan was by this time in front of the “Blue Dolphin.” It looked
bright and radiant by the light of the early morning sun, the brass
knocker on the door had an extra polish, the horse was well groomed,
and taken altogether it was a most respectable turn out.
“There!” said Macarty, pointing to the yellow machine. “It’s fit for a
prince, bedad; it’s as clane as a new pin, and as bright as a
newly-polished silver tankard.”
“And its driver?”
[Sidenote: No. 40.]
[Illustration: PEACE VISITED BY A DETECTIVE.]
“Aisy, now, aisy. Well, its dhriver is as sharp as a steel thrap. Now
then, are you ready?”
“Quite ready; but wait a bit, I must fetch my luggage and pay the
reckoning. When this has been done I am at your service.”
Peace went into the house, settled with the landlord, and returned
with his bag, which he had made into a parcel with brown paper and
string. He got up in front of the caravan, which was driven off by the
good-natured Mr. McCarty.
Peace felt perfectly well assured that he was safe from the prying
eyes of the police while he sat beside his newly-made friend McCarty,
who evidently believed him to be a hawker, never for a moment
suspecting the depredations he had been committing.
The Irishman drove his yellow house or caravan direct on to
Pocklington, and upon his arrival at the last-named place he
introduced our hero to his governor.
Peace made himself very agreeable, and entered freely into
conversation with the showman, who was greatly taken with him.
He conducted him into all the caravans of which he was proprietor, and
expatiated upon the interesting nature of their contents, and wound up
by placing before him a cold collation, with some bottled ale and
wine, and insisted upon his partaking of his hospitality.
Peace was nothing loth, and expressed himself particularly grateful
for the attention shown him.
After remaining for an hour or so with the proprietor of the shows, he
took his departure and made his way to the nearest railway station,
booked for Sheffield, and in due course of time found himself once
more in his native town.
He had but little difficulty in disposing of the property he had
possessed himself of in the palatial mansion at Leeds, but as he had
had a very narrow chance of being detected he deemed it advisable to
leave that town alone for awhile.
Upon his return to Sheffield he worked industriously at his business
for some weeks, and those who were in the habit of seeing him during
this time were under the full impression that he was a sober,
well-conducted man.
So to all outward appearance he was, and it is likely enough that, had
he chosen to pursue an honest calling for the future, he would have
done well and prospered.
But it was not in the nature of the man to continue long without
having recourse to his evil practices.
His house was very respectably furnished. His partner, the mistress of
the domicile, did not thwart him, but strove as best she could to make
her husband’s home as comfortable as possible.
He had a goat (which he had taught to perform many tricks), a monkey,
two dogs, some guinea pigs, and a cat or two――he had always displayed
throughout his career a great partiality for animals――and he was an
adept in taming them, and putting them through various performances
for the amusement of himself, family, and friends.
Indeed he might have succeeded very well as a trainer of animals for
performing purposes; as we have already signified he was clever in
many ways, but his abilities, such as they were, went for nothing.
They were over-shadowed and submerged by his passion for criminal
pursuits.
Nevertheless, those who knew him best, and were in the constant habit
of seeing, have declared that it was difficult, nay almost next to
impossible, for any one to believe him to be a lawless and
unprincipled ruffian, which was afterwards but too plainly proved.
He played at this time in the evenings at various public-houses in
Sheffield. He had taught his goat to stand on its hind legs and dance
to the sound of his violin.
This little animal is said to have been a most docile and amusing
creature, and Peace made a considerable amount of money by its antics.
He was always welcomed at the public-houses he was accustomed to
visit, and made a great many friends, but he lost them as soon as
made, for there was nothing reliable in the man, and it was,
therefore, impossible for any one to place much faith in him.