we split ’em up into three separate cages. Kept on dying. Every last one.”
“Don’t forget the smudgepots,” Valletin said.
“What about them?” I asked.
“Well, they kept going off at the wrong times. There’s nothing terribly complicated about a smudge pot—bit of powder, a length of fuse—makes a nice little flash and a puff of smoke. But for a week or so they kept going off too soon. Then one night one of them exploded into a million bits. Would have singed the old man’s hair, if he had any.”
“Mr. Kellar never mentioned any of this,” I said.
“Half the things that go on he never hears about,” Collinsinsisted. “We keep things to ourselves, most of the time. After the smudgepot exploded, Mr. Kellar talked about shutting the show down for a couple of months.” Collins swirled his drink in its glass. “He can afford not to work for a couple of months. I can’t.”
“You say there are things Mr. Kellar doesn’t know about?”
Valletin nodded. “Plenty of things. Like the time I was breaking down the gimmicks for ‘Through the Looking Glass.’ The damn mirror shattered all over me! Could have torn me to ribbons! Then there was the time Felsden fell through the lighting platform in Wichita. Might have broken his neck. I’m telling you, it makes a man think.” He examined his cigar, which had now burned down to a stump. “Makes a man think,” he repeated.
“It sounds like a bad string of accidents,” I allowed, “but surely nothing more than that?”
“I might have thought so,” Valletin continued, grinding the cigar stump into a glass ashtray, “but there’s too many of them. Too many accidents in a row. Too close together. Some of the fellows are talking about jumping ship.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure. There’s always the opera. I wouldn’t mind settling down to a bit of culture.”
“What about you, Collins? Will you be leaving for greener pastures?”
“I’ll finish the season,” he said. “Don’t want to walk out in the middle of a job. Of course, that’s assuming I don’t get eaten by a lion in the—God! What’s he doing here? Doesn’t he ever sleep?”
“What?” I asked. “Who?”
Collins gestured toward a corner table where Mr. Lyman, the newspaper man that Kellar had mentioned, was sitting by himself scribbling furiously on a note pad.
“We call him ‘Bartleby the Scrivener,’ ” said Valletin in a lowered tone. “Always writing in that pad of his. Makes me nervous.”
“If you ask me, he’s a strange bird,” Collins said.
“How so?”
“Hard to say, exactly, but he’s always making strange remarks. The other day he told me to instruct the company that from that day forward we were to refer to the old man as ‘the great and powerful Kellar.’ On stage and off. When I refused, he called me a ‘nasty old humbug.’ What can you do with a fellow like that?”
“To be candid, my brother constantly refers to himself as ‘The Great Houdini,’ and he has even been known to introduce me as ‘the brother of the Great Houdini,’ as though I had no name of my own.”
“Well, I’m sure you and Lyman will get along famously, then,” Valletin said. “He seems to have taken a shine to you already.”
I glanced at the mirror behind the bar. Sure enough, Mr. Lyman was bent forward staring at the back of my head with an expression of the utmost fascination, while his hand moved in an unceasing motion over the pages of his notebook.
6
HARDEEN TO THE RESCUE
THE NEXT FOUR DAYS PASSED QUICKLY AS HARRY, BESS AND I FELL into the routine of life with the Kellar show. We set about to learn our performance roles as quickly as possible, and happily took on whatever backstage duties came our way.
As expected, I was given a turn as a juggler during the novelty interlude between acts, and I blush to recall that Mr. Kellar was greatly impressed by my ability to handle clubs, balls and sharp knives with equal facility. I also appeared in Japanese
“Don’t forget the smudgepots,” Valletin said.
“What about them?” I asked.
“Well, they kept going off at the wrong times. There’s nothing terribly complicated about a smudge pot—bit of powder, a length of fuse—makes a nice little flash and a puff of smoke. But for a week or so they kept going off too soon. Then one night one of them exploded into a million bits. Would have singed the old man’s hair, if he had any.”
“Mr. Kellar never mentioned any of this,” I said.
“Half the things that go on he never hears about,” Collinsinsisted. “We keep things to ourselves, most of the time. After the smudgepot exploded, Mr. Kellar talked about shutting the show down for a couple of months.” Collins swirled his drink in its glass. “He can afford not to work for a couple of months. I can’t.”
“You say there are things Mr. Kellar doesn’t know about?”
Valletin nodded. “Plenty of things. Like the time I was breaking down the gimmicks for ‘Through the Looking Glass.’ The damn mirror shattered all over me! Could have torn me to ribbons! Then there was the time Felsden fell through the lighting platform in Wichita. Might have broken his neck. I’m telling you, it makes a man think.” He examined his cigar, which had now burned down to a stump. “Makes a man think,” he repeated.
“It sounds like a bad string of accidents,” I allowed, “but surely nothing more than that?”
“I might have thought so,” Valletin continued, grinding the cigar stump into a glass ashtray, “but there’s too many of them. Too many accidents in a row. Too close together. Some of the fellows are talking about jumping ship.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure. There’s always the opera. I wouldn’t mind settling down to a bit of culture.”
“What about you, Collins? Will you be leaving for greener pastures?”
“I’ll finish the season,” he said. “Don’t want to walk out in the middle of a job. Of course, that’s assuming I don’t get eaten by a lion in the—God! What’s he doing here? Doesn’t he ever sleep?”
“What?” I asked. “Who?”
Collins gestured toward a corner table where Mr. Lyman, the newspaper man that Kellar had mentioned, was sitting by himself scribbling furiously on a note pad.
“We call him ‘Bartleby the Scrivener,’ ” said Valletin in a lowered tone. “Always writing in that pad of his. Makes me nervous.”
“If you ask me, he’s a strange bird,” Collins said.
“How so?”
“Hard to say, exactly, but he’s always making strange remarks. The other day he told me to instruct the company that from that day forward we were to refer to the old man as ‘the great and powerful Kellar.’ On stage and off. When I refused, he called me a ‘nasty old humbug.’ What can you do with a fellow like that?”
“To be candid, my brother constantly refers to himself as ‘The Great Houdini,’ and he has even been known to introduce me as ‘the brother of the Great Houdini,’ as though I had no name of my own.”
“Well, I’m sure you and Lyman will get along famously, then,” Valletin said. “He seems to have taken a shine to you already.”
I glanced at the mirror behind the bar. Sure enough, Mr. Lyman was bent forward staring at the back of my head with an expression of the utmost fascination, while his hand moved in an unceasing motion over the pages of his notebook.
6
HARDEEN TO THE RESCUE
THE NEXT FOUR DAYS PASSED QUICKLY AS HARRY, BESS AND I FELL into the routine of life with the Kellar show. We set about to learn our performance roles as quickly as possible, and happily took on whatever backstage duties came our way.
As expected, I was given a turn as a juggler during the novelty interlude between acts, and I blush to recall that Mr. Kellar was greatly impressed by my ability to handle clubs, balls and sharp knives with equal facility. I also appeared in Japanese
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