There was great excitement in Smyrna, especially among the boys. Barlow's Great American Circus in its triumphal progress from State to State was close at hand, and immense yellow posters announcing its arrival were liberally displayed on fences and barns, while smaller bills were put up in the post office, the hotel, and the principal stores, and distributed from house to house.
It was the largest circus that had ever visited Smyrna. At least a dozen elephants marched with ponderous steps in its preliminary procession, while clowns, acrobats, giants, dwarfs, fat women, cannibals, and hairy savages from Thibet and Madagascar, were among the strange wonders which were to be seen at each performance for the small sum of fifty cents, children half price.
For weeks the young people had been looking forward to the advent of this marvelous aggregation of curiosities, and the country papers from farther east had given glowing accounts of the great show, which was emphatically pronounced greater and more gorgeous than in any previous year. But it may be as well to reproduce, in part, the description given in the posters:
BARLOW'S GREAT NORTH AMERICAN CIRCUS.
Now in its triumphal march across the continent, will
give two grand performances,
AT SMYRNA
On the afternoon and evening of May 18th.
Never in all its history has this
Unparalleled show embraced a greater variety of attractions,
or included a larger number of world famous
Acrobats, Clowns, Bare back Riders, Rope walkers, Trapeze
Artists, and Star Performers,
In addition to a colossal menagerie, comprising
Elephants, Tigers, Lions, Leopards,
and other wild animals in great variety.
All this and far more, including a hundred
DARING ACTS,
Can be seen for the trifling sum of Fifty cents;
Children half price.
Come One! Come All!
Two boys paused to read this notice, pasted with illustrative pictures of elephants and circus performers on the high board fence near Stoddard's grocery store. They were Dan Clark and Christopher Watson, called Kit for short.
"Shall you go to the circus, Dan?" asked Kit.
"I would like to, but you know, Kit, I have no money to spare."
"Don't let that interfere," said Kit, kindly. "Here is half a dollar. That will take you in."
"You're a tip-top fellow, Kit. But I don't think I ought to take it. I don't know when I shall be able to return it."
"Who asked you to return it? I meant it as a gift."
"You're a true friend, Kit," said Dan, earnestly. "I don't know as I ought to take it, but I will anyhow. You know I only get my board and a dollar a week from Farmer Clifford, and that I give to my mother."
"I wish you had a better place, Dan."
"So do I; but perhaps it is as well as I can do at my age. All boys are not born to good luck as you are."
"Am I born to good luck? I don't know."
"Isn't your uncle Stephen the richest man in Smyrna?"
"I suppose he is; but that doesn't make me rich."
"Isn't he your guardian?"
"Yes; but it doesn't follow because there is a guardian there is a fortune."
"I hope there is."
"I am going to tell you something in confidence, Dan. Uncle Stephen has lately been dropping a good many hints about the necessity of being economical, and that I may have my own way to make in the world. What do you think it means?"
"Have you been extravagant?"
"Not that I am aware of. I have been at an expensive boarding school with my cousin Ralph, and I have dressed well, and had a fair amount of spending money."
"Have you spent any more than Ralph?"
"No; not so much, for I will tell you in confidence that he has been playing pool and cards for money, of course without the knowledge of the principal. I know also that this last term, besides spending his pocket money he ran up bills, which his father had to pay, to the amount of fifty dollars or more."
"How did your uncle like it?"
"I don't know. Ralph and his father had a private interview, but he got the money. I believe his mother took his part."
"Why don't you ask your uncle just how you stand?"
"I have thought of it. If I am to inherit a fortune I should like to know it. If I have my own way to make I want to know that also, so that I can begin to prepare for it."
"Would you feel bad if you found out that you were a poor boy—like me, for instance?"
"I suppose I should just at first, but I should try to make the best of it in the end."
"Well, I hope you won't have occasion to buckle down to hard work. When do you go back to school?"
"The next term begins next Monday."
"And it is now Wednesday. You will be able to see the circus at any rate. It is to arrive to-night."
"Suppose we go round to the lot to-morrow morning. We can see them putting up the tents."
"All right! I'll meet you at nine o'clock."
They were about to separate when another boy, of about the same age and size, came up.
"It's time for dinner, Kit," he said; "mother'll be angry if you are late."
"Very well! I'll go home with you. Good morning, Dan."
"Good morning, Kit. Good morning, Ralph."
Ralph mumbled out "Morning," but did not deign to look at Dan.
"I wonder you associate with that boy, Kit," he said.
"Why?" inquired Kit, rather defiantly.
"Because he's only a farm laborer."
"Does that hurt him?"
"I don't care to associate with such a low class."
"Daniel Webster worked on a farm when he was a boy."
"Dan Clark isn't a Webster."
"We don't know what he will turn out to be."
"I don't consider him fit for me to associate with," said Ralph. "It may be different in your case."
"Why should it be different in my case?" asked Kit, suspiciously.
"Oh, no offense at all, but your circumstances and social position are likely to be different from mine."
"Are they? That's just what I should like to find out."
"My father says so, and as you are under his guardianship he ought to know."
"Yes, he ought to know, but he has never told me."
"He has told me, but I am not at liberty to say anything," said Ralph, looking mysterious.
"I think I ought to be the first to be told," said Kit, not unreasonably.
"You will be told soon. There is one thing I can tell you, however. You are not to go back to boarding school on Monday."
Kit paused in the street, and gazed at his companion in surprise.
"Are you going back?" he asked.
"Yes; I'm going to keep on till I am ready for college."
"And what is to be done with me?"
Ralph shrugged his shoulders.
"I am not at liberty to tell you," he answered.
"I shall ask my uncle this very day."
"Just as you please."
Kit walked on in silence. His mind was busy with thoughts of the change in his prospects. He did not know what was coming, but he was anxious. It was likely to be a turning point in his life, and he was apprehensive that the information soon to be imparted to him would not be of an agreeable nature.
Stephen Watson, uncle of Kit and father of Ralph, was a man of middle age. It was difficult to trace any resemblance between him and his nephew. The latter had an open face, with a bright, attractive expression. Mr. Watson was dark and sallow, of spare habit, and there was a cunning look in his eyes, beneath which a Roman nose jutted out like a promontory. He looked like the incarnation of cold selfishness, and his real character did not belie his looks.
Five years before Kit Watson's father had died. He resembled Kit in appearance, and was very popular in Smyrna. His brother wound up the estate, and had since been living in luxury, but whether the property was his or his nephew's Kit was unable to tell. He had asked the question occasionally, but his uncle showed a distaste for the subject, and gave evasive replies.
What Kit had just heard made him anxious, and he resolved to attack his uncle once more. After dinner, therefore, he began:
"Uncle Stephen, Ralph tells me I am not going back to school on Monday."
"Ralph speaks correctly," Mr. Watson replied in a measured voice.
"But why am I not to go?"
"I will explain before the time comes."
"Can you not tell me now? I am anxious to know."
"You must curb your curiosity. You will know in good time."
Kit regarded his uncle in silence. He wished to know what had caused this remarkable change, but it seemed useless to ask any more questions.
The next morning he and Dan Clark, according to agreement, met in front of Stoddard's store.
"I had hard work to get away," said Dan. "Let us go right over to the circus grounds."
These were located about a third of a mile from the hotel, in a large twenty-acre pasture. The lot, as it was called, was a scene of activity. A band of canvas men were busily engaged in putting up the big tent. Several elephants were standing round, and the cages of animals had already been put in place inside the rising tent.
On a bench outside sat a curious group, comprising Achilles Henderson, the great Scotch giant, who was set down on the bills as eight feet three inches in height, and was really about seven feet and a half; Major Conrad, the dwarf, who was about the size of an average child of three years, and Madame Celestina Morella, the queen of fat women, who was credited on the bills with a weight of five hundred and eighty seven pounds. She was certainly massive, but probably fell short a hundred and fifty pounds of these elephantine proportions.
Kit and Dan paused to look at this singular trio.
"I wonder how much pay they get?" said Dan, turning to Kit.
"I saw in some paper that the fat woman gets fifty dollars a week."
"That's pretty good pay for being fat, Kit."
"Would you be willing to be as fat for that money?"
"I think not," said Dan, "though it's a good deal more than I get now."
They were standing near the bench on which the three were seated. Achilles, who looked good-natured, as most big men are, addressed the boys.
"Well, boys, are you coming to see the show?"
"Yes," answered both.
"I used to like to myself when I was a boy. I didn't expect then I should ever travel with one."
"Were you very large as a boy?" asked Dan, with curiosity.
"When I was twelve years old I was six feet high, and people generally thought then that I was eighteen. I thought perhaps I shouldn't grow any more, but I kept on. When I was sixteen I was seven feet tall, and by twenty I had reached my present height."
"Are you eight feet three inches tall, Mr. Henderson?"
"Is that what the bills say?"
"Yes."
"Then it must be so," he said with a smile.
"How long have you been traveling with the circus?"
"Five years."
"How do you like it?"
"It's a good deal easier than working on a farm, especially in Vermont, where I was born and bred."
"But they call you the Scotch giant."
"It sounds well, doesn't it? My father was born in Scotland, but my mother was a Vermont Yankee. You know Americans are more willing to pay for a foreign curiosity than for one home born. That's why my great friend here"—emphasizing the word great—"calls herself Madame Celestina Morella."
The fat lady smiled.
"People think I am French or Italian," she said, "but I never was out of the United States in my life."
"Where were you born, Madame Morella?"
"In the western part of New York State. I know what you are going to ask me. Was I always fat? No, when I was sixteen I only weighed one hundred and twenty. Then I had a fit of sickness and nearly died. After recovering, I began to gain flesh, till I became a monster, as you see."
As she said this, she laughed, and her fat sides shook with merriment. Evidently she did not let her size weigh upon her mind.
"I suppose your real name isn't Celestina Morella?" said Kit.
"My real name is Betsey Hatch. That is what they called me in my girlhood, but I should hardly know who was meant if I was called so now."
"Have you been long in the show business?"
"About seven years."
"Do you like it?"
"I didn't at first, but now I've got used to moving about. Now when the spring opens I have the regular circus fever. But I have my troubles."
"What are they?" asked Kit, seeing that the fat woman liked to talk.
"Well, I find it very difficult to secure at the hotels a bed large enough and strong enough to hold me. I suppose you won't be surprised to hear that."
"Not much."
"At Akron, Ohio, where the hotel was full, I was put in a cot bed, though I protested against it. As soon as I got in, the whole thing collapsed, and I was landed on the floor."
She laughed heartily at the remembrance.
"I remember that very well," said the giant, "for I slept in the room below. Half an hour after getting into bed, I heard a fearful noise in the room above, and thought at first the hotel had been struck by lightning, and a piercing shriek that echoed through the house led me to fear that my esteemed Italian friend was a victim. But my mind was soon relieved when I learned the truth."
"I suppose, major, you never broke down a bed," said the giant, turning to the dwarf.
"No," answered the major, in a shrill piping voice, "I never lie awake thinking of that."
"I believe you served in the civil war, major?"
"Yes, I was in the infantry."
It was a stale joke, but all four laughed at it.
"How much do you weigh, major?" Kit ventured to ask.
"Twenty-one pounds and a half," answered the dwarf. "I have with me some of my photographs, if you would like to buy," and the little man produced half a dozen cards from his tiny pocket.
"How much are they?"
"Ten cents."
"I'll take one," said Kit, and he produced the necessary coin.
"If you go into the tent you can see some of the performers rehearsing," suggested Achilles.
"Let us go in, Dan."
The two boys reached the portals and went into the big tent.
The circus tent was nearly ready for the regular performance. Kit and Dan regarded the sawdust arena with the interest which it always inspires in boys of sixteen. Already it was invested with fascination for them. Two acrobats who performed what is called the "brothers' act" were rehearsing. They were placarded as the Vincenti brothers, though one was a French Canadian and the other an Irishman, and there was no relationship between them. At the time the boys entered, one had climbed upon the other's shoulders, and was standing erect with folded arms. This was, of course, easy, but the next act was more difficult. By a quick movement he lowered his head, and grasping the uplifted hands of the lower acrobat, raised his feet and poised himself aloft, with his feet up in the air, sustained by the muscular arms of his associate.
"That must take strength, Kit," said Dan.
"So it does."
"No one but a circus man could do it, I suppose?"
"I can do it," said Kit quietly.
Dan regarded him with undisguised astonishment.
"You are joking," he said.
"No, I am not."
"Where did you learn to do such a thing?" asked Dan, incredulous, though he knew Kit to be a boy of truth.
"I will tell you. In the town where I attended boarding school there is a large gymnasium, under the superintendence of a man who traveled for years with a circus. He used to give lessons to the boys, but most contented themselves with a few common exercises. I suppose I should also, but there was an English boy in the school, very supple and muscular, who was proud of his strength, and ambitious to make himself a thorough gymnast. He persuaded me to take lessons in the most difficult acrobatic feats with him, as two had to work together."
"Did you pay the professor extra to instruct you?" asked Dan.
"He charged nothing. He was only too glad to teach us all he knew. It seems he was at one time connected with Barnum's circus, and prepared performers for the arena. He told us it made him think of his old circus days to teach us. At the close of last term we gave him five dollars apiece as an acknowledgment of his services. He assured us then that we were competent to perform in any circus."
"Could you really do what the Vincenti brothers are doing?"
"Yes; and more."
"I wish I could see you do it."
The boys were seated near the sawdust arena, and the last part of their conversation had been heard by the acrobats. It was taken as an illustration of boyish braggadocio, and as circus men are always ready for practical jokes, particularly at the expense of greenhorns, they resolved that there was a good chance for a little fun.
One tipped the wink to the other, and turning to Kit, said: "What's that you're saying, kid?"
"How does he know your name?" said Dan, mistaking kid, the circus name for boy, for his friend's nickname.
"He said kid, not Kit," answered our hero.
"Do you think you can do our act?" continued the acrobat.
"I think I can," replied Kit.
This elicited a broad grin from the acrobat.
"Look here, kid," he said, "do you know how long it took me to learn the business?"
"I don't know, but I should like to know."
"Three years."
"No doubt you can do a great deal more than I."
"Oh, no, certainly not!" said the acrobat, ironically.
"I see you don't believe me," said Kit.
"I'll tell you what you remind me of, kid. There was a fellow came to our circus last summer, and wanted to get an engagement as rider. He said he'd been a cowboy out in New Mexico, and had been employed to break horses. So we gave the fellow a trial. We brought out a wild mustang, and told him to show what he could do. The mustang let him get on, as was his custom, but after he was fairly on, he gave a jump, and Mr. Cowboy measured his length on the sawdust."
Kit and Dan both smiled at this story.
"I am not a cowboy, and don't profess to ride bucking mustangs," he said, "though my friend Dan may."
"I'd rather be excused," put in Dan.
"I'll tell you what, kid, if you'll go through the performance you've just seen I'll give you five dollars."
The fellow expected Kit would make some hasty excuse, but he was mistaken. Our hero rose from his seat, removed his coat and vest, and bounded into the arena.
"I am ready," he said, "but I am not strong enough to be the under man. I'll do the other."
"All right! Go ahead!"
The speaker put himself in position. Kit gave a spring, and in an instant was upon his shoulders.
There was an exclamation of surprise from the second acrobat.
"Christopher!" he exclaimed. "The boy's got something in him, after all."
"Now what shall I do?" asked Kit, as with folded arms he stood on the acrobat's shoulders.
"Keep your place while I walk round the arena."
Kit maintained his position while the acrobat ran round the circle, increasing his pace on purpose to dislodge his young associate. But Kit was too well used to this act to be embarrassed. He held himself erect, and never swerved for an instant.
"Pretty good, kid!" said the acrobat. "Now reverse yourself and stand on my hands with your feet in the air."
Kit made the change skillfully, and to the equal surprise of Dan and the other acrobat, both of whom applauded without stint.
"Can you do anything else?" asked Alonzo Vincenti.
"Yes."
Kit went through a variety of other feats, and then descending from his elevated perch, was about to resume his coat and vest, when the circus performer asked him, "Can you tumble?"
Kit's answer was to roll over the arena in a succession of somersaults and hand springs.
"Well, I'm beat!" said the acrobat. "You're the smartest kid I ever met in my travels. Are you sure you're not a professional?"
"Quite sure," answered Kit, smiling.
"You never traveled with a show, then?"
Kit shook his head.
"Where on earth did you pick up all these acts?"
"I took lessons of Professor Donaldson."
"You did! Well, that explains it. I say, kid, you ought to join a circus. You'd command a fine salary."
"Would I? How much could I get?" asked Kit, with interest.
"Ten or twelve dollars a week and all expenses paid. That's pretty good pay for a kid, isn't it?"
"It's more than I ever earned yet," answered Kit, with a smile.
"I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Barlow would give you that now. If you ever make up your mind to join a show, come round and see him."
"Thank you," said Kit.
Soon after the boys left the circus lot and went home.
"Would you really join a circus, Kit?" asked Dan.
"It isn't the life I would choose," answered Kit, seriously, "but I may have to find some way of earning a living, and that very soon."
"I thought your father left you a fortune."
"So did I; but I hear that I am to be taken from boarding school, and possibly set to work. Ralph has given me a hint of it. I shall soon know, as my uncle intimates that he has a communication to make me."
"I hope it isn't as bad as you think, Kit."
"I hope so too, but I can tell you better to-morrow. We will meet to-night at the show."
Just before supper Kit was asked to an interview with his uncle.
"You wish to speak to me, Uncle Stephen?" he said.
"Yes; I have decided not to postpone the explanation for which you asked yesterday."
"I shall be glad to hear it, sir."
"Ever since your father's death I have supported you, not because I was morally or legally bound to do so, but because you were my nephew."
"But didn't my father leave any property?" asked Kit in amazement.
"He was supposed to have done so."
"This house and grounds are surely worth a good deal of money!"
"So they are," answered Stephen Watson, dryly, "but unfortunately they did not belong to your father."
"This is certainly a mistake," exclaimed Kit, indignantly.
"Wait till I have finished. These stood in your father's name, but there was a mortgage of two thousand dollars held by the Smyrna Savings Bank."
"Surely the place is worth far more than two thousand dollars!"
"Curb your impatience, and you will soon understand me. The place is worth far more than two thousand dollars. I consider it worth ten thousand."
"Then I don't see——"
"Your father left large debts, which of course had to be paid. I was therefore obliged to sell the estate, in order to realize the necessary funds."
"For how much did you sell the place?"
"For nine thousand dollars. I regarded that as a good price, considering that it was paid in cash or the equivalent."
"To whom did you sell?"
"I bought it in myself; I was not willing that the place which my brother had loved so well, should pass into the hands of strangers."
"May I ask who was my father's principal creditor?" asked Kit.
"Ahem! I was," answered Stephen Watson, in a tone of slight embarrassment.
"You!" exclaimed Kit, in fresh surprise.
"Yes; your father owed me twelve thousand dollars borrowed at various times."
"How could he have been obliged to borrow so much?" asked Kit. "He always seemed comfortably situated. I never once heard him complain of being pressed for money."
"Very likely; he was very reticent about his affairs. I would explain, but the matter is rather a delicate one."
"I think I am entitled to know all about it, Uncle Stephen," said Kit, firmly.
"Be it so! Perhaps you are right. Let me tell you in the briefest terms, then, that in his later years your father speculated in Wall Street—not heavily, for he had not the means, but heavily for one of his property. Of course he lost. Almost every one does, who ventures into the 'street.' His first losses, instead of deterring him from further speculation, led him on to rasher ventures. It was then that he came to me for money."
"Didn't you urge him to give up speculating?" asked Kit.
"Yes, but my words availed little. Perhaps you will think I ought to have refused him loans, but he assured me in the strongest terms that unless he obtained money from some source he would be ruined, and I yielded. I might have been weak—it was weak, for I stood a chance of losing all, having merely his notes of hand to show for the money I lent. But it is hard to refuse a brother. I think I should do the same again."
Kit was silent. His uncle's words were warm, and indicated strong sympathy for Kit's father, but his tone was cold, and there seemed a lack of earnestness. Kit could not repress a feeling of incredulity. There was another obstacle to his accepting with full credence the tale which his uncle told him. He had always understood from his father that his uncle was a poor and struggling man. How could he have in his possession the sum of twelve thousand dollars to lend his brother? This question was certainly difficult to answer. He paused, then refraining from discussing the subject, said:
"Why have you not told me this before, Uncle Stephen?"
"Would it have made you any happier?" returned Stephen Watson.
"No."
"Till you had acquired a fair education, I thought it better to keep the unpleasant truth from you. It would only have annoyed you to feel that you owed everything to my generosity, and were in fact a child of charity."
Kit's face flushed deeply as he heard this expression from his uncle's lips.
"Do you mean that my father left absolutely nothing?" he asked.