The Romances of Sandy McGrab/On the Road

REAT historical events have a knack of treading on one another's heels. Three days after the time-honored name of McGrab & Son had been painted out from over Kirkhumphries' chief homespun establishment, and the late owner had turned his back on his grief-stricken birthplace forever, the English town of Jedborough welcomed its first circus. To the ignorant, these circumstances may not seem of world-convulsing significance, but those who have had the pleasure of visiting either the “Pearl of the Highlands”—vide the railway guides—or Jedborough—referred to only in connection with slow trains—will be filled with the proper awe and understanding.

In the first place, Kirkhumphries had never been without a McGrab before; in the second, Jedborough had never seen a circus. The latter town lies off the great highroad leading from London to Edinburgh, and does not even belong to the Lowlands, so that to mention it in the same breath with Kirkhumphries in the presence of a Kirkhumphriesite, amounts to a direct provocation. In a word, Jedborough is English. Up to the time when this narrative opens, it had been respectable. It had a very hearty contempt for the frivolities that never came near it. Had it been asked its opinion, it would have consigned circuses to the worldly things that are “not quite nice.” But Simeon's Greatest Show from the Wild West asked no questions at all. It came. It occupied the greater part of the market place. Its huge canvas overshadowed the surrounding houses, and the whir and shriek of a steam-driven musical instrument, which combined the dignity of a church organ with the brilliancy of a German band, had been in the ears of Jedborough's inhabitants since five o'clock in the evening.

To the luring sweetness of such Old World English ballads as “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” the before-mentioned inhabitants were being drawn into the net of temptation. Simeon himself stood at the doorway of the tent, and distributed bait in the form of yellow handbills. He was marvelously arrayed in bright-yellow boots reaching to the thigh, a khaki shirt, gauntlet gloves, a red bandanna handkerchief, a slouch hat, and a belt full of six-shooters. Added to all the fierceness were a drooping, black mustache, and a nose whose generous curve was anything but Western.

“Now, chentlemen, don't miss your chance! De only berformance in Chedborough! One night only! Come and see de Revolving Prodigy, and Madame Sadela, de Greatest Lady Wire Dancer in Europe. Come along, chentlemen!”

Behind him, as an appropriate and picturesque background, was the sandy arena, and beyond that, hidden by the curtained entry, a serried array of caravans around which Jedborough's youth stood and gaped in awe-struck curiosity. In the largest of the caravans the Revolving Prodigy was crying his small heart out, with his face buried in the shoulder of the Greatest Lady Wire Dancer in Europe.

“I don't want to!” he reiterated piteously. “I don't want to! I'm tired! I'm always tired! I don't want to revolve”

“My poor little one—mon chouchou! There, thou shalt not. It is thy mother that promises”

“But you're always promising!”

“Ah, it is too true. I am a bad, wicked, cruel woman!” Madame Sadela clasped the child to her with a frantic affection and remorse that made every bone in his small frame crack. “Henri, mon ange, your mother is an abomination!”

She said a good many other things in French. The words came from between clenched teeth with an amazing crispness and rapidity. Each syllable seemed to be consigning some one or something to the nethermost circles of the Inferno. It was like listening to the rattle of a machine gun. The boy cuddled up closer to her.

“I love you, mummy!” he said huskily.

“Ha, you love me! That is not to be borne! You are an angel, and I am a bad woman. You love me. It is a punishment of God. How should you love me, hein?”

To this he seemed to find no verbal answer. He slipped one feverish little hand into hers, and threw back his head so that he could look up into her face. He bore her scarcely any resemblance. His was the replica of hundreds of London guttersnipe faces—commonplace, and yet pathetic, pinched and white, with a glint of far-off boyishness in the tear-dulled eyes. Madame Sadela, of wire-dancing fame, came of another race. The dim light from an oil lamp lit up her small, vigorous features, and brought sparks of fire out of eyes whose misery was of a militant order. A mop of curly, black hair framed the round, rather sallow little face, and a stray curl that hung straight down the center of her forehead gave her an air of satanic fury. She wore a red satin dress, whose flouncy skirts went no farther than the knees, revealing a pair of red-clad, daintily shaped legs, and two very small feet. The whole effect was diabolically pretty.

Outside the tent the steam-driven musical instrument burst into a grinding waltz. Henri clung closer.

“Mummy, shall we always 'ave to be 'ere?”

“Always.”

“Shan't we never go 'ome no more?”

Madame Sadela showed her white teeth.

“N-e-e-ver,” she said, with the despair of ten condensed Greek tragedies.

“And shall I always 'ave to revolve, mummy?”

This seemed too much. She pushed him aside almost roughly, and sprang to her feet.

“Le grand diable!” she said, to no one in particular, but with great energy. Then she snatched up a shawl from the back of a chair, and thrust open the caravan door. “One day vill I kill 'im,” she added as an afterthought, and the next minute was picking her way with the daintines [sic] of a tiger cat across the muddy square to the tent entrance.

As she entered, the ring appeared to be deserted. The attendants were busy with the horses in the stables. Simeon was still vociferating to an increasing crowd outside. The musical instrument seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the whole universe. But Madame Sadela had quick eyes.

“Monsieur Gollioth!” she said imperatively.

Something on the far side moved. It moved so slowly that it might have been a shadow itself. When it came out into the light, it proved to be a man.

“Monsieur Gollioth, come here!” she insisted.

Monsieur Gollioth came. He was about six feet high, but gave the impression of having been stunted in his growth. His hands and feet were immense, and whoever had had the molding of his features had evidently given up the job halfway in despair. He wore a top hat and a check suit of sporting cut three sizes too small for him, and, perhaps to mark its position, his nose hi id been painted red. He shambled up to her, trailing a rake behind him.

“Hullo!” he said.

“You go and tell Monsieur Simeon I vill speak to him!” she commanded.

“It's as much as my job's worth”

“What do I care for your job? I must speak vith him at once!”

“I daren't” Monsieur Gollioth's accent might have been called cosmopolitan, and had an unexpected refinement about it that suggested better days. He looked down at madame, and his way of looking down at her suggested looking up through miles of space to some shining, unattainable star. He looked at the truculent curl, and at the arched red feet. “I daren't,” he repeated. “He'll half murder me.”

“I don't care. You must.” She stamped on the loose sand. Then she caught him by the lapel of his amazing coat, and tiptoed up to him. “For my sake, Monsieur Gollioth!”

“I dare” He stopped short, blinked his watery, blue eyes, and shook his head till the top hat lolled over one ear. “Women are the ruin of all us giants,” he soliloquized. “Soft hearts, that's what we have—soft hearts”

He shuffled toward the entrance from whence Simeon's voice still sounded, half bullying, and a moment later there was silence. With a vicious crack from a long-thonged cowboy whip, the owner of the Greatest Show in the World swaggered into the arena.

“Vat de devil's de matter vid you?” he demanded.

She braced herself to meet him. One small, energetic-looking hand clasped the shawl about her, the other was gripped at her side. Her eyes blazed.

“I have asked to see you about my son,” she said; “about Henri. “'E cannot play to-night.”

“Who said so?”

“I do.”

“You do? Vell, a lot dat matters. He's got to play.”

“"E is ill. The doctor say if 'e play when 'e is ill”

“I don't care vat de doctor says. He'll do as he's told. He's my best turn. If I hear any more humbug”

“Voyons!” She planted herself resolutely in front of him. “When I left my 'usband, when I came 'ere, it was not for you. Henri was ill. My *usband's show went all wrong. You offered to give me money—much money. I was to be rich, and Henri was to get well. For that I signed that bit of paper you call a contract. But you 'ave not kept your promise—Henri is ver' ill—I 'ave no money. If you make 'im play to-night, I vill run away—I vill take Henri vith me”

Simeon burst out laughing.

“We've had dat out before, hafn't we, old girl? Dere's dat bit of paper, as you call it. If you break your contract, you'll owe me four hundred pounds. And who's to pay? Your husband? I'll sell him up, I'll bust his show”

“You are a cheat—a bad, wicked man! I vill tell all ze vorld”

“You'd better try!” He raised his clenched fist at her. “You'd better”

Monsieur Gollioth lurched in between, windmill fashion, arms waving impotently.

“I've a soft heart,” he gasped. “If you hit her, you hit me”

“I don't mind if I do,” said Simeon.

Thereafter the might-have-been giant did not move. He lay full length in the sand. Possibly, having a soft heart, he had also a soft head. Simeon cursed and beckoned to a couple of attendants. “Chuck him out and t'row a bucket of water ofer him. Now den, get along vid you

“Scélérat!” she burst out, and then, feeling that the word was wasted on him: “Pig!” The angry tears ran down her cheeks.

Simeon laughed and swung on his heel. But his temper had lost its Western bluffness. When he returned to his post, his manner of encouraging the inhabitants of Jedborough to visit the Greatest Show on Earth suggested that if they didn't, they ought to be hung, drawn, and quartered, and that he would like to have a hand in the execution. Fortunately, Jedborough responded nobly, and the stream of expectant visitors seemed unending.

Simeon's brow remained clouded. He had knocked senseless the one funny man of his troupe. There is nothing that amuses humanity so much as a caricature of itself, and Gollioth was undoubtedly a caricature of the first water. The moment he made shambling, amiably stupid entry, the sourest misanthrope hugged his sides. And now he was senseless—and not a soul to take his place. Simeon's frown became a scowl. Then quite suddenly the scowl lifted to an expression of interrogation, and a moment afterward Simeon laughed.

Just beyond the pushing line of Jedboroughites, and directly under an electric globe was something that Simeon had never seen before. A young man was leaning against the fence. He was not a bad-looking young man. What made Simeon laugh was his get-up. The top of his fair head was crowned with what Simeon would have called a girl's tam-o'-shanter. His arms were folded over what seemed a bright-hued traveling rug, and instead of trousers, he wore skirts. Finally, as a culminating touch of oddness, his stockings were turned down, leaving the knees bare, and ended in a pair of buckled shoes. Simeon pushed his way across, and touched the stranger on the shoulder.

“Hullo!” he said.

The young man turned and considered his interlocutor gravely.

“A good evening to ye,” he returned.

“Got a show round here?”

The stranger looked blank.

“I t'ought you might be on de road,” Simeon explained with relief. “Vat on eart' are you?”

“A play actor,” said the young man.

“A vat?”

“A play actor.”

Simeon guffawed and forgot his cowboy origin.

“Father Abraham! I t'ought you vere a choke!”

“I never joke intentionally,” said the young man, with unperturbed solemnity.

Simeon considered a moment.

“I'm a 'pro' myself,” he began again. “I take vat you might call a natural interest in my brother pros. Might I ask vere you did play last?”

“On the hills over Glen Every,” said the young man. He was looking straight through Simeon's slouch hat, and for the first time, something like a smile hovered round his clean-cut mouth. Simeon stared, too. He had never heard of Glen Every. He wondered if it was a music hall.

“Good house?” he asked. The stranger's grave look of total noncomprehension baffled him. He tried other expressions. “Good show, I mean—how many peoples vas dere to hear you?”

“One lady,” said the young man. But Simeon's appreciation of his second jest was short-lived. The stranger swung round on him, and the dreaminess of the blue eyes was replaced by a fire that was anything but pacific. “If you're laughing at the lady” he began fiercely.

Simeon swept off his hat and bowed low.

“A t'ousand pardons. I haf a bad cough. It is fery troublesome. I vould not laugh for de vorld. And vat did de lady say?”

“She said I was Garrick, and Kean, and Irving, all rolled in one.”

“Gott! And who are all dese fine chentlemen?”

“Play actors,” said the young man.

“And vat did you play?”

“Romeo.”

Simeon rocked with silent laughter.

“Ha, Romeo! You haf played Romeo to de lady? Now I understand. It is another choke” He caught sight of the threatening blue eye, and tactfully broke off. “And vere do you play Romeo next, young man?”

“In London.”

“You haf an engagement?”

“No.”

“You haf been dere before?”

“No,” with faint contempt. “I'm fra Kirkhumphries.”

“Gott im Himmel!” said Simeon, apparently awe-struck. Then he had a flash of inspiration. “Young man, you're not Harry Lauder hafing a choke, are you?”

The young man drew himself up.

“I'm no joke,” he repeated, more in sorrow than in anger. “And me name is Sandy MeGrab.”

Simeon slapped him on the back.

“I do not care vat you are called. You vant to go to London. I vill take you. And I vill gif you a pound a veek to act Romeo in my show on de vay. Vat I vant is someding new—someding dat vill make peoples laugh—someding funny like you”

“I'm not funny”

“You are—you vill be ven you act. Come, I make it thirty shillings. You come right inside now.” Sandy McGrab appeared to hesitate. Simeon turned and peered knowingly into his face. “Vat you vant is a square meal,” he said. “Hein?”

Sandy McGrab's set features relaxed.

“Mon,” he said, almost with enthusiasm, “it's the first word of sense I've heard from ye yet.”

“You'll play Romeo for me?”

“Ye shall hear Romeo as ye ha'e never heard him before,” said Sandy McGrab modestly. “Lead on!”

“You promised!” The voice of the Revolving Prodigy, alias Henri, more commonly known as “'Arry,” rose to a wail, and tailed off in a wheezy, pathetic little cough. “You promised!” he repeated, with childish persistence. “You always promises!”

Madame Sadela said nothing. Her lips were tight closed; her head, thrown back against the wooden barrier, suggested a curious mixture of defiance and despair. One hand gripped the Prodigy by the shoulder. Contrasted with her vividness, he seemed paler and smaller than ever. The light-blue tights, in themselves ridiculous enough, hung round his poor little limbs as if their task of trying to cover so much misery filled them with utter dejection. The paint that had been dabbed on the hollow cheeks was not so bright as the fever that seemed to burn in every clearly marked vein.

“I think,” he said huskily, “I think if I revolves to-night, I shall tumble!”

A shiver ran through Madame Sadela's frame.

“You mustn't!” she whispered. “Henri—you must be brave—you must try—just this little once!”

“It's always just once!” he complained, with bitter logic. “Father said I wasn't to when I was tired.”

“Mother of God!” said Madame Sadela, under her breath. She crossed herself vigorously, and for an instant her hands were clasped in an involuntary attitude of passionate supplication. Sandy McGrab saw the movement. Through a narrow opening in the curtain, he had been watching the wonderful gyrations of a jockey on the phenomenally broad back of a thinly disguised cart horse. Now he looked at the strange couple on the other side of the passage.

At the end of her silent prayer, Madame Sadela crossed herself again. Sandy McGrab had heard of such things. They had been denounced in Kirkhumphies by no less a person than the minister himself. He had also heard of ladies who wore short skirts and bright-colored stockings. They also had been denounced. But Sandy McGrab knew better—he had met one of them. There was a sprig of withered Scotch heather tucked away somewhere in the region of an unsentimental Scotch heart to remind him of her, and for her sake he was not shocked, but only a little grieved. As the jockey turned a final somersault to a final crash from the steam organ, Sandy McGrab detached his plaid, and, crossing the passage, laid it across Madame Sadela's shoulders, so that it covered her from head to foot.

“You'll be better like that,” he said gravely.

Madame Sadela's jaw dropped. For the first time in her life, she was bereft of speech. She did not at all understand, and she stared at this strange young man in the strange, somewhat improper costume, as if he had dropped suddenly from heaven.

“Merci, monsieur, but I 'ave not cold,” she stammered at last.

Sandy shook his head. “It was no of your body I was thinking,” he said. He bent down and touched the child's face with a gentle hand. “The bairn's fretting,” he added. “It ought to be in bed.”

“Bed!” ejaculated Madame Sadela. But she had no opportunity to express herself further. The curtains were pushed open. The jockey on the back of the cart horse made a triumphant exit, and half a dozen attendants rushed out to prepare for the next turn. Cowboy Simeon swaggered down upon them.

“Now, den, hurry up dere, you good-for-noding little shrimp! Up vid you!”

For an instant the Revolving Prodigy hesitated. He looked up piteously. Madame Sadela's face was white under the paint. She was staring at Simeon, and if eyes could kill, he would have dropped down dead at her feet. But she said nothing, and, with a weary hop, skip, and jump, the Revolving Prodigy trotted docilely into the ring. A burst of applause welcomed his minuteness. He kissed his hands vaguely, hesitated again, and then slowly, painfully, began to climb the rope ladder leading to the roof of the tent.

“Ye—ye're no sending that wee laddie up there?”

Madame Sadela started as if she had been struck. She looked up into Sandy McGrab's flushed face, and her angry, miserable eyes spat fire at him.

“Let go my arm, monsieur. What business is it of yours?”

“It's the business of every man and woman. What does he do when he gets up there?”

She laughed in savage despite of herself.

“He go round and round—like that”—she made a circular movement with her free hand—“into the net.”

“And you're his mother?”

“Let go my arm!”

“Ye're a bad woman!” said Sandy McGrab recklessly.

She wrenched her hand free. She made as if to slap his face, and instead clasped her hand to her heart.

“Grand Dieu!” she whispered. “Look!”

He obeyed. The Revolving Prodigy had reached his destination. High up against the roof, on a narrow platform, his tiny, absurd figure was still clearly visible. He stood quite still, his head bent a little. He seemed to be looking down into the net that was to receive him. It was not a very big net—unless some one is risking his life, no Christian audience is really amused—and it was conceivable that even a Revolving Prodigy might miss it altogether. Jedborough held its breath in delight. The Prodigy kissed his hands again—waveringly. And then, suddenly, a thin, stifled sound broke the silence.

“Mummy!”

The Revolving Prodigy had broken down on the little platform, and, with his face buried in his hands, as if to hide himself from the yawning depths beneath, sobbed bitterly.

Simeon gripped McGrab by the arm. He was cursing in three languages.

“Get out dere—into de ring! Do anyding—make a fool of yourself—take deir minds off it! Out vid you!” He swung round on the horror-stricken woman beside him. “Dis is your doing!” he snarled at her. “But it von't help you. He'll stay dere till he's done de trick—I swear it!”

Sandy McGrab strode into the arena It was his first real audience, his first great chance. But it was not of that he was thinking. He was thinking of the “wee laddie” fifty feet above him, crying his heart out. The shuffling and murmuring of Jedborough's puzzled, half-angry citizens sounded like a distant accompaniment to those piteous sobs. Somehow or other he had to stop it—to save the situation. It was in his hands, and the heart of Sandy McGrab beat high and strong.

he began, with poetic vigor.

Jedborough took to him at once. Jedborough was in no sort of doubt about him. He was obviously the “funny turn.” Being thoroughly English, Jedborough knew very little about Shakespeare, and nothing at all about Romeo, but it had an enormous sense of humor, and this kilted Scotsman making extravagant love—with a faint accent—to an invisible lady, who, by the direction of his gestures, must have been seated in the shilling seats, tickled them to death. Jedborough rocked with delight, and Simeon nodded approval. If they could be kept going, he was saved. As for Sandy McGrab, he saw and heard nothing. He was back on the heights over Glen Every, and perched above him, amidst the faded heather, was a woman with blue eyes, and warm, golden hair, who smiled upon him

cried Sandy McGrab.

And then a curious thing happened. It would be more correct, though ungrammatical, to say “began to happen,” for it came gradually. Jedborough stopped laughing. It was quite unaware of the fact. The transition was subtle and unconscious. But for Jedborough, too, the sandy arena vanished. The big electric globe faded to a silvery moon, and the pungent odor of the stables was drowned in the scent of roses. Jedborough did not reason with itself, but it took a passionate interest in the heart affairs of this Scotsman and his invisible, beautiful lady.

And then, suddenly, Sandy McGrab broke off. With a swoop, he carried Jedborough from the peaceful Italian garden to the bleak battlements of an English castle. Here was no love-making, but a child pleading for mercy at the hands of its executioner. It was a daring flight. Had Jedborough had any sense of humor left at all, the sight of this large Scotsman presenting himself as little Prince Arthur would have convulsed it. But Jedborough had ceased to see the funny side of things. Will Shakespeare, and Sandy McGrab, and the Revolving Prodigy, cowering on the tiny platform, had worked a miracle between them. Jedborough was dry-throated and wet-eyed. Behind the curtains Madame Sadela wept fiercely, and Simeon cursed. He did not understand the deepening silence. He only understood that when an audience is silent, it is bored. He swaggered out into the ring.

“Stop it!” he hissed into McGrab's ear. “Stop it! Be funny, can't you?”

Sandy McGrab, being still on the embattlements, did not hear him.

“You fool Scotchman!” said Simeon loudly and explosively.

That reached. McGrab turned.

“I didna quite hear, mon,” he said politely, but with a threatening increase of accent. “Will ye no say it again?”

Simeon said it again. Jedborough rubbed its eyes, and recovered its mental balance. After all, it was a comic turn. As Simeon picked himself slowly up out of the sand, the sporting youth of Jedborough roared encouragement.

“Go it, Scotty! Give him one in the heye! Now, then, boss! What about them six-shooters?”

Simeon, blind with rage and sand, hit out wildly. McGrab dodged. There was a click like the meeting of two billiard balls, and Simeon rose no more. Jedborough shrieked with laughter. It was quite the most convincingly funny scene it could have imagined. The Revolving Prodigy was forgotten, and began a timid, hurried descent to earth. Sandy McGrab faced his audience like a lion.

“If there's any one of ye has a word more to say about a Scotchman, I'd like to meet him!” he challenged.

They only laughed. Sandy McGrab swung on his heel and strode out of the arena. The scared attendants dragged Simeon into safety, and prepared for the next turn. The steam organ grunted the preliminaries to a waltz.

As Sandy McGrab pushed aside the curtains, Madame Sadela met him. There were tears on her long lashes, but her eyes sparkled.

“Mon ami,” she said; “you are a brave man—a ver' brave man! If you had broken his neck, almost I would 'ave loved you. As it is”

She tiptoed up to him and kissed Sandy McGrab on both cheeks.

To the surprise of all concerned, Sandy McGrab's connection with the Greatest Show on Earth did not come to an abrupt end, and his first public appearance was allowed to pass into oblivion. In spite of a black eye, Simeon was clear-sighted enough to see that the unrehearsed turn had been the success of the evening. And, above all things, he was a business man.

So the next day, when the Greatest Show turned out of Jedborough, bound for a neighboring fair, Sandy McGrab marched in the van in front of the elephants, and Monsieur Gollioth shambled beside him. From time to time, Madame Sadela rode past them. She was dressed as a vivandière, and sat the cart horse with grace. Once, as she passed, she threw Sandy McGrab a flower that she had torn from a hedge, but Sandy McGrab blushed and looked the other way. Monsieur Gollioth ran back. He picked the flower out of the dust, and brushed it tenderly.

“It was not meant for me,” he said, sighing. “But why should it not make me happy? There are not many flowers like this on life's wayside.” He looked sideways at his companion. “You do not like Madame Sadela, Mr. McGrab?” he suggested cautiously.

“She is no' womanly enough,” said Sandy McGrab. “She does not love her son.”

“And she kissed you!” said Monsieur Gollioth, with a deeper sigh of reproach.

“That was wrong of her,” said Sandy, with severity.

Monsieur Gollioth came to a sudden halt. He squared his sloping shoulders, and his pale eyebrows met menacingly.

“You wrong the best woman on this earth, Mr. McGrab,” he said. ”Were it not that I know you to be an honest man, I would feel myself compelled to administer personal chastisement. As it is, I will tear the veil of misconception from your eyes. Madame Sadela loves her son. She kissed you because she was grateful”

“I dinna understand,” said Sandy McGrab; “and there's an elephant creature treading on me heels.”

Monsieur Gollioth moved on with dignity.

“You do not understand how Madame Sadela loves her son? She left her dear husband for his sake. Ah, that puzzles you? Her husband was a showman like Simeon—but poor, very poor. The show was a failure; Henri fell ill. Then came Simeon. Simeon saw how clever she was—how, with a little opportunity, she would become famous. He offered her great riches. Henri had to have good food—all that money could buy. She ran away. One day she meant to return—but there was a contract. She signed it—not understanding. If she left Simeon now, she would owe him many hundreds, and her husband would be ruined. Ah, how I have suffered for her!” The tears that had been in his voice rolled down his cheeks. He rubbed them away with his coat sleeve. “It's my soft heart,” he explained apologetically. “All giants are soft-hearted.”

“Are you a giant?” asked Sandy McGrab.

Gollioth sighed again.

“I ought to have been,” he said. “When Simeon saw my feet, fifteen years ago, he said: 'That boy will be the tallest man in Europe.' And he called me Goliath. But something went wrong. The feet grew all right, but I stopped. So he called me Gollioth. It's a cross between Goliath and a golliwog, you see.”

“And what may be a golliwog?” asked Sandy.

“I don't rightly know—a sort of animal.”

“I never saw one in Kirkhumphries,” remarked Sandy thoughtfully.

The would-be giant shook his head.

“And so I am just funny,” he said. “It's one of the great tragedies of my life.”

He did not say what the other tragedies were, but he looked at the flower, and drew a sigh that seemed to come from the mighty circumference of his boots. They walked on in silence. The fair was already in sight, and they could hear the discordant crash of music, and the underflowing current of voices. Suddenly Madame Sadela trotted back to them. She had been on in front, distributing handbills, but in these few minutes her whole face had undergone a strange change. It was very white under the paint and the powder. There was a drawn look about the truculent mouth, and something hunted in the brown eyes. She drew rein at Sandy's side.

“Monsieur McGr-rab!” she said breathlessly.

He looked up at her.

“I ha'e been thinking it over,” he said solemnly. “Ye're no' so bad, Madame Sadela. I—apologize.”

She caught his outstretched hand.

“Ah, you know? You are a leetle sorry now? You vill 'elp me?”

“All I can.”

“Ah, mon Dieu, it is a small thing! You see that tent there? Vill you go there? You vill say nothing of me, but you vill ask—ask 'ow things go—'ow 'e is. You understand? Ah, promise! You vill go?”

“I'm going,' said Sandy placidly. “Will ye no' come, too?”

The color rushed to her cheeks. Without a word, she swung her horse round and rode to the rear of the procession. The giant blew his nose loudly.

“It's him,” he said huskily. “It's him.”

“I ha'e no doot,” said Sandy.

He fell out of the procession unnoticed, and approached the deserted-looking tent. Over the entrance, inscribed in large letters, was the name “William Jones,” and seated immediately beneath was presumably Jones himself. He was a young man, dressed something in the style affected by costermongers, with the qualifying addition of a pair of top-boots. A cap was pushed back from a well-greased head, and a painfully correct curl lay flat on his forehead. He sat with his chin in his hands, gazing into space, his good-natured, clean-shaven face puckered into lines of determined gloom, and did not look up until McGrab came between him and the light.

“Hullo!” he said.

“Hullo!” returned Sandy pleasantly.

“Come from Simeon's by the look of you.”

“I have,” said Sandy.

“Blighter!” Not knowing the significance of the word, Sandy took no offense, and, after a moment's consideration, Mr. William Jones apologized. “I didn't mean you—I meant 'im—Simeon. I'd like to black 'is bloomin' eye!”

McGrab smiled.

“You canna do that,” he said. “I blacked them both last night.”

“You did? Shake!”

They shook solemnly.

“How's business?” asked Sandy, admirably unconcerned.

Mr. Jones lost animation at once.

“Bad,” he said. “Bad as could be. Not a soul been 'ere for hours. Don't blame them, either. Who wants to see performin' fleas and two-headed calves nowadays? Wot with the bloomin' hadvance of civilization and suchlike, people won't look at nothin' less than Siamese Twins. It's a walley of tribulation, that's wot I calls this life.”

“What you want,” said McGrab, gazing up at the sky, “is a pretty woman—a wire dancer, for instance, like we have.”

Mr. Jones bounded to his feet with clenched fists.

“Look 'ere!” he said menacingly. “If you're kiddin' me, I'll knock you down, shelp me Gawd!”

“I really dinna ken what ye mean by that,” said Sandy, “but I wasn't doing it.”

Mr. Jones took a deep breath.

“I thought you knew,” he said dejectedly. “Everybody knows it pretty well. I did 'ave a wire dancer. She was pretty to make the eyes drop out of your 'ead, and we was plighted almost as soon as she put her nose in my show. And we 'ad the jolliest, spryest little kid you ever saw” He cleared his throat with an effort. “And then 'e come along—that blighter—and she took a fancy to 'im, with 'is black mustache, and 'is jooels, and they bolted”

“Zat is a lie!” said a feminine voice, with indescribable fierceness.

Both men started violently. It was Madame Sadela. The cart horse had been discarded, and she stood there, stamping a booted foot, and blazing at them both like the very personification of war. Even Sandy McGrab flinched. Mr. William Jones lost what little color he had.

“Sidi!” he gasped.

“Zat was a lie you spoke!” she stormed. “Vat did I care for 'im? Did I look at 'im? Vat was 'is mustache to me? 'Ave I one bijou zat 'e 'ave given me? Bah, it was for thy sake, imbecile!”

“Oh, I say!” interjected Mr. Jones mildly. “I ain't asked to swallow that, am I?”

Madame Sadela made a movement that suggested a tiger cat ready to spring.

“I ask you to swallow nozing. I tell you ze truth. You 'ad my letter?”

“I put it in the fire,” said Mr. Jones, with dignity. “'Usbands don't read no letters from runaway wives”

“Indescribable imbecile, I was not runaway! Henri was ill. Simeon, he offered me much money to dance for 'im. I was to come back to you rich and famous. Henri was to become well. It was for thy sake—I swear it by the 'ead of my sainted grandfather”

“'Ere, don't you do that!” Mr. Jones waved the offer hastily aside. “I'll tike your word for it—I don't want no resurrections in the witness box on my account. I tikes back every insinooation”

“Guillaume!”

“My old girl!”

Sandy McGrab stared with embarrassment in the opposite direction, while Madame Sadela wept furiously on her husband's shoulder.

“Mon pauvre Guillaume, mon chouchou adoré! 'Ow thou must 'ave suffered! 'Ow I 'ave 'urt thee!”

“Don't mention it,” said Mr. Jones. He tried to wink at Sandy over his wife's head. “These foreign wimming is different from us,” he explained apologetically. “They tikes on dreadful when they get started, but they means well, 'Ere, old lady, don't you worrit. It's all right now. You come along 'ome, and bring Ongri with ye”

“Guillaume, you would be glad?”

“Wot ho! I've missed you both fit to bust!”

She kissed him passionately.

“Hélas, and it can ne-v-err be!”

“'Old on, wotcher talkin' now?”

“There is ze contract—I signed it—I did not understand ze language. Henri and I are bound to 'is show for six years, and if I go away, I give 'im four hundred pounds, or 'e sell you up.”

Mr. William Jones collapsed slowly on the bench beside him.

“Well, I'm shivered!” he said. “You 'ave gone and done it, and no mistike!”

There was a long and painful silence. Husband and wife sat side by side, and hand in hand. Both wept openly.

“This 'ere life is a walley of hupsets, that's wot I say,” began Mr. Jones at last. “I wish I was buried!”

“Guillaume—without me?”

“You've got the kid. I ain't no good. If you was to come back now, we'd make our pile together, but if 'e can sell me up first, I'm done. And we've got to think of the kid”

“Guillaume, 'e breaks 'is 'eart for you!”

Mr. Jones brushed his sleeve across his eyes.

“'Ere, dry up, old girl; I cawn't stand it! Seems to me” He made a valiant fight for manly self-control. “It ain't no good us standin' 'ere a-wringin' of our 'earts. We've got our dooty, and we've got to stick it. You get along back to—to the kid, Sidi. I cawn't stand it any longer—s'help me Gawd!”

He sank back on the bench, with his face between his hands. Madame Sadela kissed him passionately on the immaculate parting.

“One day I vill kill 'im!” she declared tragically to the heavens. She turned and walked away. Mr. William Jones looked after her. Then he lifted his tear-filled eyes to Sandy McGrab.

“'Ere,” he said. “You seem a decent sort, Scotty. Keep an eye on 'er, won'cher?”

“I promise!” said Sandy McGrab.

“Thanks!” He retired into the tent and made a grotesque effort to grin back cheerfully over his shoulders. “I've got me performin' fleas left, any'ow,” he said. “I ain't quite alone in the world.”

The nose of Bunstable's Annual Fair was out of joint. Since the arrival of the World's Greatest Show, the smaller booths had been empty. The overcivilized inhabitants, weary of double-headed calves and such primitive entertainments, clamored for revolving prodigies and wire dancers, and on the night of the gala performance Simeon's tent was full to overflowing. There was to be a special new turn, whose nature was wrapped in secrecy even from the attendants. All that they knew was that it was called “The Fly on the Ceiling,” and that it was both funny and dangerous—a delicious combination of virtues. The Revolving Prodigy and Sandy McGrab were the only people who knew the details.

The Revolving Prodigy stood at the entrance to the arena and cried. He wore his newest tights, which made him even more pathetic, and his tears were the quiet, fatalistic tears of children who have already learned their futility. Madame Sadela stood beside him, and he clung to her icy-cold hand.

“If I tumble to-night, p'raps you'll he able to go back to father,” he said with a sudden little flash of hopefulness.

Madame Sadela groaned. She looked across the gangway, and her despairing eyes met those of Sandy McGrab. He looked back at her steadily and unsmilingly like a man deep in thought. Then he turned and made his way to the stables. In one of the empty stalls Monsieur Gollioth was engaged in donning his evening toilet, and had just added a touch of crimson to an already highly colored nose.

“Look here,” said Sandy McGrab. “How about the tragedy of your life, mon?”

“To which tragedy do you allude?” asked Monsieur Gollioth gloomily.

“To Madame Sadela.”

Monsieur Gollioth put his finger to his lips.

“Hush! It is the pure secret I have kept buried in the innermost recesses of my heart. I wished never to speak of it, but since you have discovered it—no matter. Continue, young man.”

“What will you do to make her happy?”

“I would give the world!” declared Monsieur Gollioth enthusiastically.

“I would na suggest going so far as that,” said Sandy cautiously. A bell rang in the arena, and he bent forward and whispered in the giant's ear. Slowly Monsieur Gollioth's face brightened—then for an instant darkened again.

“I have held my post here for fifteen years,” he said. “I shall be cast out, friendless, upon an unkind world. Who wants a giant of my size?”

“If ye do as I tell ye, ye'll keep the post well enough. When I come down, ye maun go for me. If ye black both my eyes, he'll forgive ye anything.”

“But you!” exclaimed Monsieur Gollioth tragically.

Sandy McGrab laughed and squared his big shoulders.

“A highlander can look after himself,” he said. “I'll be all right. And I'm thinking—there's a lady who'll be glad of what we're doing. You promise?”

“I promise!” said Monsieur Gollioth, in sepulchral accents.

The bell rang again. It was the signal that the interval in the program was over. The great new turn of the evening had come. Sandy McGrab hurried back to the arena. On the way he passed Madame Sadela and stopped an instant.

“Ye're no' to worry,” he said gently “A McGrab never broke his wurrd yet.”

“How shall I thank you?” she whispered. “I vill pray to the good God for you always—and Henri he vill pray, too.” She caught his hand, and suddenly kissed it. Whereat Sandy McGrab, for the first time in his life, took to his heels.

Simeon already occupied the center of the ring. He nodded to McGrab, and the latter began to climb the rope ladder, which had been let down for him. Near the roof of the tent, on a kind of rough scaffolding, a windlass had been erected, from which a rope with a powerful-looking hook had been unwound. As McGrab clambered on to the dizzy platform, Simeon began his oration.

“Ladies and chentlemen,” he said; “you are now about to witness de most hair-raising berformance of de century. A berformer who is already known to you vill be attached to dis rope. De chentleman in de skirts”—laughter—“vill vind him up to de ceiling. By a special contrivance, he vill be able to swing de berformer right across de arena—over your heads. Vat de berformer vill den do, I vill not describe. You shall see for yourselfs. Now, ladies and chentlemen”

He gave a signal. The musical instrument snorted, and the Revolving Prodigy ran into the arena. He was not crying any more. He was trying to smile, and he kissed his hands to the audience almost eagerly. Monsieur Gollioth ambled at his heels. Overhead the windlass creaked, and the rope came within reach. Monsieur Gollioth seized it.

“Now, den!”

Unfortunately Monsieur Gollioth stumbled. He fell up against Simeon, who cursed. There was a moment's confusion. The windlass creaked again. Slowly, but remorselessly, Simeon was lifted from his feet.

“Stop! Idiots! Sheepheads! Let me down! Vat are you doing? Gott im Himmel, is de man mad?”

Sandy McGrab worked at the windlass till the sweat rolled down his cheeks. Simeon was bulky. The swivel had been neatly attached to his belt in the middle of his back, and he pivoted slowly round and round like some monstrous, slightly intoxicated spread-eagle. Breathless, wheezy curses of foreign origin rang through the moment's silence. Then the audience saw the joke. The laughter was Homeric. By the time the gasping, swearing cowboy had reached the ceiling, his remarks were lost in the general uproar. Sandy McGrab attached the windlass, and set the rockers in motion. Simeon began to swing slowly backward and forward. As he came within earshot of the platform, McGrab leaned forward.

“Hullo!” he said,

Simeon groaned.

“Let me down—you infernal scoundrel—you verfluchter Scotchman!”

“Ye ken I'm vury sensitive about me nationality,” said Sandy, as Simeon swung back. “I'll thank ye to apologize.”

Simeon set his teeth. He swung twice over the arena before he spoke again. He had a blurred vision of gesticulating attendants and applauding multitudes. The smudge of faces made him feel very sick, indeed. The pressure of his belt became painful.

“I—apologize” he gasped, on the third swing.

“Thank ye,” said Sandy courteously.

“Let me down!”

“Oh, why?” Sandy protested. “You're the success of the evening.”

“I'll give you ten pounds”

“There's the little matter of Madame Sadela's contract,” said Sandy. “If ye have it about you, pass it along the next time ye come my way.”

“It's blackmail, you scoundrel!”

“Ye cheated her,” remarked Sandy. “It's your Jew's soul I'm thinking of. If the belt broke now”

“Fifteen!” groaned Simeon, on the back swing.

“The contract will be cheaper,” returned Sandy pleasantly.

“I'm dying”

“We all are, mon. Here to-day, and gone to-morrow, as the poet has it”

Simeon held out for two more awful minutes. He had long since ceased to distinguish faces. The encouraging, delighted shouts of his audience mingled with a sickening roaring in his own ears.

“I vill gif it to you—ven I get down I”

“It's in your breast pocket, mon. I'd rather ha'e it noo.”

Simeon fumbled blindly. Sandy bent forward and snatched something from his outstretched hand as he flew past. There was another moment, during which Sandy carefully investigated the contents of a pocketbook, and then half a dozen torn pieces of paper fluttered down into the ring. Sandy unfastened the windlass, and slowly, still feebly pivoting, the cowboy descended to earth. There he collapsed. But he had strength enough, as Sandy McGrab came off the last rung of the lader [sic], to gasp out an order. Sandy McGrab squared himself for the onslaught. The giant led the van.

“It's your only chance, mon!” Sandy whispered, as they closed. “Black both my eyes, and he'll believe it was an accident. Hit out!”

“I cannot. It's my soft heart. We giants”

He sat down on the edge of the ring and wept while the crowd rocked with laughter, and Sandy, son of McGrab, went down under a dozen powerful fists.

It was near midnight when two battered-looking pilgrims passed the tent belonging to one William Jones, showman. The lights still burned. Already placards, painted in large, straggling letters, announced that, in addition to the performing fleas and the two-headed calf, Madame Sadela, the famous wire dancer, and a certain revolving prodigy, would make their appearance on the morrow. The two tramps stopped to listen. They heard a woman singing some quaint foreign songs, and a child's joyous laughter.

The giant nodded.

“It's the first time I've heard him laugh for a year,” he said huskily.

They looked at each other through the gloom. It was pouring with rain. They were both penniless, and very wet.

“It was worth it,” said Sandy McGrab.

“Quite worth it,” said the giant, and wiped a damaged eye.