Читать книгу Road to Adventure - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 4

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THE performance was over. Out of the great tent streamed the audience, chattering, laughing, discussing the points of the show. Boys swung down from the high benches, darting round to the back of the tent for a last glimpse of the sleepy lions in their caravan—to be roughly thrust aside by the tamer, who displayed now little of the smiling carelessness that he had shown a little earlier in the ring. “Off out o’ that!”—and the boys fled, to rejoin anxious parents who were seeking them unavailingly in the gloom that seemed darker from the flaring naphtha lights.

The dusty road leading to the township echoed under many feet. From the fences horses were untied, and riders cantered off into the night—every bush youngster firmly resolved to turn himself and his pony into Circus performers before the end of the week. Buggies and spring-carts, packed to overflowing, followed more slowly. It was still the day of the horse: motors were vaguely talked of in the cities, but the country folk who had driven long miles to the Circus—who would have come twice as far at the mere hint of a Circus—sniffed contemptuously at the idea of carriages that could go without horses; declaring they would believe it when they saw it. Now, a good light buggy with a decent pair—that was ambition high enough for any man. They faced the weary homeward journey light-heartedly, heedless of the drizzling rain that was beginning to patter softly. Rain was welcome at almost any time, even in an uncovered cart: and after a Circus there was enough talk for a dozen journeys. The yellow flicker of lamps and hurricane-lanterns gleamed fitfully among the trees long after the last hoof-beats had died away.

But at the Circus itself there was hurry and activity. No sleep for the folk of the roads, with two full marches ahead before the next township, and grim bush tracks for the heavy caravans. In waggons and lesser tents performers were hurriedly changing into the clothes of every day: here and there a baby cried angrily, disturbed by a father or mother casting aside spangled tights and gaudy jackets of cheap silk, snatching mouthfuls of food during the process. The gay trappings of the big tent, the red carpet that covered the best seats, the flags draping the musicians’ box, were rolled up almost before the last spectator was clear of the entrance. Blue poles came down: the benches were carried out, to be stacked in a waggon. Every man had his place and his job; all worked like parts of a machine, under the eye of the Boss—big Dan Peterson, who was known to be able to see in six directions at once, and had, when necessary, a tongue that could flay a rhinoceros. Under its lash even the lion-tamer had been known to quail.

Big Dan did not work. He watched: still resplendent in his ring-master’s outfit of dress-clothes and top-hat, a curious contrast to the sweating, panting men in shirts and trousers. No smallest detail escaped his roving, watchful glance. He knew by the sounds just when one laden waggon moved off, another taking its place. His ears, that served him as well as another man’s eyes, noted that the restless growls and roarings in the menagerie lines had died down to satisfied murmurs that signified that all the big cats were fed: that the elephants were pushing the great wheeled cages into place, ready to move: that the horses were being watered and rubbed down. Every sound carried its message of well-drilled activity.

But his eyes were for the heart of the Circus—the huge performing tent, known as the Big Top. He watched until it was empty. One flaring torch, all that was left of the many that had seemed an illumination indeed to the bush audience, revealed a trodden expanse of grass, the sawdust-sprinkled ring faintly showing in the gloom. Big Dan walked round it slowly, his glance keen for a chance broken bottle that might cut the precious canvas when it was lowered. Nothing. The men had scattered to the ropes outside. He took down the torch from the centre-pole and followed them.

“All ready?” he thundered.

There was an answering shout, rippling round the tent—“Ay, ay, sir!”

“Let-’er-go!”

At the “go” every man gripped his rope. The heavy central ring slid earthwards: and slowly the great mass of canvas shuddered down until it lay on the grass, a vast blot. The men flung themselves upon it, casting it off from the pole, wrestling with the weight of its mighty folds; their fingers slipping on the wet surface: a big task for giants, it seemed, in the darkness, but each could have worked blindfold. Big Dan muttered angrily at the rain, and went with long strides to his caravan, returning in an old coat and hat. The canvas was loaded on a lorry: then the mighty centre-pole was lowered and disjointed—there was a moment when The Boss had to leap forward to a rope that threatened danger when a man slid helplessly on the wet grass. The man, a lightly-built fellow, glanced nervously at his master as he regained his footing.

Big Dan, however, was in good humour. He said, “Better learn to dig y’r heels in, Jeff; can’t afford to slip when we’re playin’ about with the big stick.” Jeff breathed freely again. He had seen a man knocked down for a less serious mistake.

It was all done at last: the ground searched for stray tent-pegs, the litter cleared up and burned—Big Dan was proud of his reputation for leaving a camping-ground neat. Already the caravans and cages were on the road strung out behind a man who waited to lead them, carrying a hurricane lantern. He stood beside his horse, eating the supper—tea and rough sandwiches—handed him from the leading waggon. There was a halt of ten minutes while the riders snatched some food: all others fed as they bumped over the uneven track. Then Big Dan gave the signal. It was taken up along the line. The leader gulped down his tea, handed back the tin mug, and swung into the saddle still eating. Wheels ground slowly into the dust: the last lorry lurched from the grass into the road. Peterson’s Circus was under way: a long string of ghost-like vehicles following a swaying ghost-light into the bush-walled gloom.

The blue-and-gold caravan that was Dan Peterson’s only home brought up the rear. It was a perfect home, he thought. To-night, as he climbed up the steps, ducking his tall head as he entered, and closing the door behind him, it seemed to him that it had never looked more inviting.

Everything within was bright: clean paint, polished brass, gay yellow curtains drawn over the little windows. The swinging lamp cast a cheerful glow over all. It was divided into two compartments. The front one, known as the cabin, held two large bunks and a smaller one.

It was curtained off from the rear: and Big Dan’s first action was to put his head through the curtains and look at the occupant of the Little bunk, who, being very fast asleep, was unconscious of this attention on his part. All that Big Dan could see was a part of a rosy cheek, and a mop of long black curly hair. It seemed to satisfy him. He turned back, smiling.

“She’s pretty sound.” He hung his glistening coat behind the door and sank happily on the leather bench that ran along one side of the compartment. “My word, old girl, that smells good!”

The little woman who stood by the oil-stove, diligently stirring the contents of a saucepan, returned his smile.

“Well, you ought to be ready for it: I know I am,” she returned. “I gave Nita hers as soon as she came out of the ring and she was asleep ten minutes after.”

“I should just about say I was ready.” He glanced contentedly round the compartment. The table, screwed to the floor, bore a yellow, checked cloth, spread ready for supper. There were shelves everywhere, with cross-bars to prevent their contents sliding out: cupboards were fitted wherever possible, some with mirror-fronted doors that reflected the gay colours. The whole place was a miracle of contrivance and comfort. And the most heartsome sight in it was little Mrs. Dan, in her yellow overall, bending over the stove that was the pride of her heart, since nothing more complete had ever been designed for a caravan. Big Dan had had it made to his own plan, and had installed it in triumph, declaring that it was “as handy as a pocket in a shirt.” Mrs. Dan saw no reason to give it lesser praise. And if, at the moment, the prevailing odour of the caravan was that of fried onions—well, that merely added the final note of perfection for Big Dan.

“Can you wait till I peel off these things?” He glanced at his ring costume with disfavour. “A man can’t eat comfortable in a stiff shirt.”

“Well, don’t be long.” It was a needless warning, for Big Dan never was long. He disappeared behind the curtain, moving as softly as a cat, and presently reappeared in a huge blue dressing-gown and soft slippers. Supper smoked upon the table. They attacked it with an enjoyment that was not lessened by being compelled to guard against the antics of their plates when the caravan jolted and rocked like a ship in a heavy sea.

“Silly of me to eat so much; it’ll come against me if ever I go back to the ring,” remarked Mrs. Dan. “But I never could say No to a fried onion!”

“You don’t need to. You’ll never go back to the ring, my girl,” declared her husband, scraping out the saucepan. “Plenty for you to do without that.”

“Oh, I dunno. I often hanker for it, you know, Dan. When I stand behind and see the girls ride in, all in the old get-up, and smell the smell of it all, and hear the clapping and the cheers—well, it gets me, you know. I feel sort of sad to be out of it.”

“ ’M,” said Dan, with his mouth full. “All very well for an odd hanker, Polly. But it’s another pair of shoes when it means goin’ into the ring afternoon an’ evening, ill or well, hot or cold, good houses or bad. Not so much fun then, and you know it well enough! Besides, it don’t do for the Boss’s wife to be a performer. I’m dead against it.”

“What you’re dead against,” said Mrs. Dan, shrewdly, “is the chance of me getting hurt. Me, that never was slung off a horse yet!”

“Oh, well——” said Big Dan; and became absorbed in mopping up the last remnant of gravy with a piece of bread. “Anyhow, it’s enough on my mind to let Nita take to it. But it stops in a few years, Polly, you mark my words. Off she goes to boarding-school then—one of the real slap-up ones. I’m not going to have my girl grow up in the ring.”

“Like her mother did,” added Mrs. Dan, wickedly.

“You grew up in it ’cause you had to. And you grew up like—like a flower,” said her husband, with a touch of sentiment that would have greatly startled his men. “Nothing could touch you that wasn’t clean and good. But just because you and I know what the life is we’ll take Nita out of it, I reckon.”

“If she’ll go,” said Nita’s mother.

“Go? I’ll say she’ll go!” thundered the other parent. “What—that kid to think she’s got any say in the matter? I’ll precious quick teach her if——”

“What are you making such a noise for, Daddy?” demanded a sleepy voice from the other side of the curtain.

Big Dan was up with one of the quick, lithe movements that had helped, in his youth, to make him a notable lion-tamer. He bent over the little bunk.

“There, you drop off again, Daddy’s precious,” he said, softly. “Don’t you worry; we’re all on the road, nice and comfortable.”

“Well, you roared,” said Nita, drowsily.

“Did I wake my girl, then?” Big Dan’s voice was penitent. “I was just telling Mummy a yarn. You go off to sleep.” He patted her gently until her eyelids closed, and then went back, on tiptoe, avoiding his wife’s glance as he got out his pipe. Mrs. Dan, having stowed away the supper things, was knitting busily. A dimple lurked near her mouth.

“Well, she knocked ’em in the ring to-day, didn’t she?” he said. “Both houses—specially the evening, of course. She does handle that new pony pretty, don’t she? I wish there was another youngster in the Circus nearer her size: I could fix up a good act for a pair.”

“Eddie Pratt’s too big, I s’pose?”

“Too big, and not class enough. He’ll never have good hands if he lives to be a hundred. Don’t like that boy. Thinks too much of himself, and he’s too free with his tongue. Always very meek and mild when I’m about, but I hear him cheeking other people. I’m not keen on him being much with Nita.”

“It isn’t easy to keep them apart,” said Mrs. Dan. “They’re the only children, you see. And he’s not a bad youngster, Dan.”

“Oh, you’d never admit that anyone wasn’t a whitened sepulchre,” said Dan, obscurely. “Anyhow, he’s not good enough for our girl, and I’ll keep my eye on him.” He put up his feet on the couch and smoked luxuriously. “Best day we’ve had this tour, Polly: pretty well full both times. You’ll be getting that gold watch I promised you if it goes on like this.”

“O-oh!” said little Mrs. Dan.

“I was a bit afraid I was paying that new tamer more’n the show could stand,” said Dan. “But he’s worth it. That chap can do anything with the cats. Even old Nabob respects him, and he’s the worst-tempered lion I ever set eyes on. There’s no doubt, Polly, a good lion act does pay. Queer how these bush chaps like to see anything with a bit of danger to a man in it. Two or three told me to-day they’d come in twenty miles just because they’d heard about Pazo and his cats—and they stayed for both houses.”

“I hate ’em!” said Mrs. Dan, vehemently. “Nasty brutes, I call ’em. Thank goodness you don’t go in for that business now, Dan.”

“Well—you can’t, when you’re boss of the show. But I liked it well enough. And if I’d never been a tamer you’d never have had a circus-owner for a husband, old girl.” He yawned, hugely. “Jove, I’m tired! Thank goodness we’ve a lazy Sunday ahead. It’s a bit hard on everyone to get on the road at the end of a long day, but it’s worth it, to have twenty-four hours quiet before we start again.”

“Gives me a chance to do a bit of washing,” said Mrs. Dan—“and every other woman. Do you know where you’ll camp, Dan?”

“First chance we get after dawn. I’ve told Crowe to come back an’ wake me whenever he sees a likely-looking place. It’ll have to be a paddock where we can get water, of course, and it isn’t everyone that’ll let a Circus in. But my luck’s in this trip: we’ll get some place all right. Hope there won’t be any nervous horses about; we’d be unpopular if they took it into their heads to drop dead at the sight of the elephants, like that old moke in Conandrah.”

“Don’t remind me of it!” said his wife, screwing up her face. “I never saw such annoyed people!”