five years. Come on, there’s the music change.”
Hap dashed ahead, and Howie Rook followed, as instructed, a few lengths behind. He was supposed to gnaw hungrily at the stale loaf of bread which had been provided from the garbage cans of the cook top; he was supposed to pantomime adoration for any pretty girl in the front row of seats. “And keep away from any children with sacks of candy,” Hap warned him. “Because if they offer it you have to take it, and eat it!”
All went passably well until they were halfway around the Hippodrome and then Howie Rook suddenly froze as he caught sight of a face in the third or fourth row. The woman wore a scarf around her head, and dark glasses, but in spite of all this, he was almost positive that it was Mavis McFarley. He forgot to keep in character; he forgot to smile and leer at her. But on a wild impulse he did come close enough to the barrier to say, “Meet me after the show—ticket wagon!” But Mavis only stared blankly after him as he raced hastily on. Rook almost got into Hap’s act again—he had nearly made it around the Hippodrome track—before a dozen or so dashing steeds came thundering down upon him on their way to the rings; he had cut too close inside toward the ring bank and had to scramble for his very life.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” Hap Hammett told him as he staggered into the wings. “Only next time don’t work so close to the horses, and just pantomime at the pretty girls; don’t talk to them. Clowns are supposed to be mute.” The man evidently had eyes in the back of his head. “And, Rook, while you’re with us, don’t get overeager and add new business unless I say so. That’s where McFarley almost got into a jam; he decided to substitute a lemon for the loaf of bread, just for a gag.”
“But I’d prefer a lemon to that stale bread. What earthly harm would that do?” They were walking back toward the dressing rooms.
“He happened to suck the lemon right in front of the bandstand, when Leo Dawes was cuing an aerial act. Ever seen what happens to a cornet player when somebody sucks a lemon? Leo went sour and missed a beat and Gina Nondello lost her hold during a triple somersault and had to hit the net—unprepared. McFarley didn’t know any better, but I thought for a while that Leo would tear him limb from limb. And Art Nondello was worse; they had to hold him to keep him from going after McFarley with a tent stake.”
“I will make a mental note to avoid lemons,” promised Howie Rook. But he went through the rest of the show almost mechanically. In the fire-rescue scene, the last crazy-act, he found himself rescued more roughly than ever; his hat was knocked off and when he bent to pick it up, one of the midgets—presumably Olaf, for he wore cop uniform—gave him a most resounding whack on the sit-upon with a slapstick, sending him sprawling. For a moment Rook saw red, but the tiny clown pantomimed terror and ran to hide behind the immaculate evening tails of the equestrian director, the master of ceremonies of the whole show, who scowled and nodded them both off.
He was a stiffish, military Prussian type named Nordling, according to the program, who wanted little truck with the smaller people of the circus and who dwelt in Olympian splendor in his own private car. But he gave Howie Rook a very hard look, and Rook did his best to give it back—then remembered that clowns can only smile. He raced obediently off.
In the last walkaround with Hap, Rook took pains to work close inside to the barrier between the performers and the crowd, trying to catch Mavis McFarley’s eye. But the seat she had occupied earlier was now empty, and so was the one next to it. He hurried on out and around, and back to the dressing rooms. Tonight, he decided, they could have the grand spec finale, the parade of ponderous pachyderms and blood- sweating behemoths and lovely ladies (from eighteen to eighty) without him. He had to change and get out
Hap dashed ahead, and Howie Rook followed, as instructed, a few lengths behind. He was supposed to gnaw hungrily at the stale loaf of bread which had been provided from the garbage cans of the cook top; he was supposed to pantomime adoration for any pretty girl in the front row of seats. “And keep away from any children with sacks of candy,” Hap warned him. “Because if they offer it you have to take it, and eat it!”
All went passably well until they were halfway around the Hippodrome and then Howie Rook suddenly froze as he caught sight of a face in the third or fourth row. The woman wore a scarf around her head, and dark glasses, but in spite of all this, he was almost positive that it was Mavis McFarley. He forgot to keep in character; he forgot to smile and leer at her. But on a wild impulse he did come close enough to the barrier to say, “Meet me after the show—ticket wagon!” But Mavis only stared blankly after him as he raced hastily on. Rook almost got into Hap’s act again—he had nearly made it around the Hippodrome track—before a dozen or so dashing steeds came thundering down upon him on their way to the rings; he had cut too close inside toward the ring bank and had to scramble for his very life.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” Hap Hammett told him as he staggered into the wings. “Only next time don’t work so close to the horses, and just pantomime at the pretty girls; don’t talk to them. Clowns are supposed to be mute.” The man evidently had eyes in the back of his head. “And, Rook, while you’re with us, don’t get overeager and add new business unless I say so. That’s where McFarley almost got into a jam; he decided to substitute a lemon for the loaf of bread, just for a gag.”
“But I’d prefer a lemon to that stale bread. What earthly harm would that do?” They were walking back toward the dressing rooms.
“He happened to suck the lemon right in front of the bandstand, when Leo Dawes was cuing an aerial act. Ever seen what happens to a cornet player when somebody sucks a lemon? Leo went sour and missed a beat and Gina Nondello lost her hold during a triple somersault and had to hit the net—unprepared. McFarley didn’t know any better, but I thought for a while that Leo would tear him limb from limb. And Art Nondello was worse; they had to hold him to keep him from going after McFarley with a tent stake.”
“I will make a mental note to avoid lemons,” promised Howie Rook. But he went through the rest of the show almost mechanically. In the fire-rescue scene, the last crazy-act, he found himself rescued more roughly than ever; his hat was knocked off and when he bent to pick it up, one of the midgets—presumably Olaf, for he wore cop uniform—gave him a most resounding whack on the sit-upon with a slapstick, sending him sprawling. For a moment Rook saw red, but the tiny clown pantomimed terror and ran to hide behind the immaculate evening tails of the equestrian director, the master of ceremonies of the whole show, who scowled and nodded them both off.
He was a stiffish, military Prussian type named Nordling, according to the program, who wanted little truck with the smaller people of the circus and who dwelt in Olympian splendor in his own private car. But he gave Howie Rook a very hard look, and Rook did his best to give it back—then remembered that clowns can only smile. He raced obediently off.
In the last walkaround with Hap, Rook took pains to work close inside to the barrier between the performers and the crowd, trying to catch Mavis McFarley’s eye. But the seat she had occupied earlier was now empty, and so was the one next to it. He hurried on out and around, and back to the dressing rooms. Tonight, he decided, they could have the grand spec finale, the parade of ponderous pachyderms and blood- sweating behemoths and lovely ladies (from eighteen to eighty) without him. He had to change and get out
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