Carnival

N the opening night of the carnival Culhane insulted one of

ON

the cowgirls and in a short-lived fight in an unused tent he knocked out the man who took offence at it. Police broke up the crowd that had assembled. Culhane winked at one officer, spoke a few words to him in a whisper and left unmolested. He laughed at the girl as he went out and she cursed him in return. Two men were waiting for him at the entrance of the grounds. All three walked off together, the two praising Culhane loudly. They entered a saloon a few blocks down the street. "Doc" Poole, partner of Culhane in ownership of the saloon, was idly shaking dice. He listened with a sardonic smile to their story.

"You going back again to-night?" said Doc.

"Hell, yes," said Culhane. "I've got to see some of those women I knew last year."

At ten o'clock the booming of the drum came faintly.

A ticket seller sat on his throne beside a platform. The crowd, chiefly men, swarmed around, listening to the harangue of the spieler. "Come and see them, come and see them. Eight pretty girlies who will sing and dance. They are not proud, gentlemen, nor are they heavily clothed. Here they are. Here they are." Eight bedaubed women in tights filed on to the platform and stood, gazing at the audience.

"Mabel," called the spieler; the blonde on the right bowed and forced a smile. Mamie, the second, did likewise, Agnes, the third, Dolly, the fourth, then, Fifi, Annie, Bobby and Jerry.

"You see them, gentlemen, eight pretty girlies who will sing and dance for your amusement. Who can resist them? And there is another one, gentlemen, who will appear only inside the tent. Need I say why? Tickets are twenty-five cents and they will soon be gone. Step up, step up."

Culhane bought a ticket and went in. He always sat far down in front where the girls could see him as they danced and catch his signs. Some low wooden stands furnished seats for about a hundred men. A boy sold crackerjack till the show began. The ticket agent came in, turned the footlights on, and sat down at a

battered piano. An oilcloth curtain rolled up; he began to play. The chorus bobbed in and after an awkward dance bobbed out. Mabel followed; she sang "Way Down Yonder in New Orleans" in a flat voice. After her selection the piano player stopped long enough to turn on a blue light and to turn out all the others. "Here's the girlie you've been waiting for, boys," he said. A slight, pretty girl in filmy blue did a barefoot dance to the "Song of India". Her eyes fell on Culhane, who winked and raised his eyebrows. She looked away. The show ended with the girl in blue leading the chorus.

Culhane emerged from the tent with the others, but he lingered and in a short time disappeared behind in the shadows.

He returned to the saloon at one.

"What luck?" queried Doc Poole.

"Say, listen," replied Culhane, "there's a hell of a good chorus girl down there. I don't know why she's wasting her time doing the sticks, but I'll know that to-morrow night. I know just about everything else right now. She does one of these dances to soft music that knocked me cold. I winked at her and gave her the come-on, but not her. She didn't look at me again. So after the show I went around to the place where they come out. I didn't have any trouble telling her from the rest of those ponies. I said, "Is there anywhere you want to go?" and she jumped back like I'd hit her. She tried to run by me, but I got in her way. 'Come on,' I said, 'I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know you better. You're a swell dancer.' Doc, she was great at this 'don't touch me, I'm pure' stuff. Almost all of those carnival women pull that the first time. Well, I talked gentle, and finally she calmed down and then I said, 'Let's go up and get something to eat.' She went and when I got her out in the light I took a good look at her and she took one at me. She's damn pretty. I could tell by her eyes that she was surprised at how classy I look. We went up and got a sundae at the Garden and then we talked for about an hour. She gave me all the old salve about her old woman having died and her old man being just bumped off in an accident and so she had to go to work. I said yes to everything and 'that's too bad', but I didn't call her 'dearie' or anything. I know how to work these would-be innocent dames. Finally I said my name was Jimmy Hayes, and that I lived in the big house up there on

the hill. How was that, Doc? Telling her that I lived in Hayes' house? But she's wise. She made out that she believed me and when I asked her to tell me her name she said Mary Morton. I asked to escort her back to the grounds and I didn't try any funny stuff. She acted too wise; she's the kind that you have to spend some dough on before you get anything. I told her I'd come around to-morrow afternoon, and she says, 'Will you really?' 'You bet,' I says, and went off."

"Not bad," said Doc. "I guess you won't be doing much work around here this week."

At six o'clock in the evening Culhane entered the saloon, smiling. "I saw her again, Doc, and I'm going to see her to-night. We went for a walk past old man Hayes' house and I showed her where my room was. I told her I'd take her in some day. She told me the rest of that story of hers. It's the old stuff. When her old man died she couldn't get a job in a store or anywhere and she saw an ad in the paper for girls for a road show. Well, she went to the place and thought she was signing a contract to go to New York. She says that's what the guy told her, but instead she found out it was a ten weeks' bind to go with this carnival around Chicago. She says the manager threatened to beat her up if she tried to run away. You've got to see her tell this to appreciate it. She's got big blue eyes and she talks serious as hell. I guess that story is as good now as when she started using it. She hasn't sprung the joker yet about me paying her fare to New York, but it's coming. I'll get mine before she gets hers. She thinks because I've got curly hair and a nice smile that I'm simple. That's what the one last year thought. Remember her? I'll leave it to you who got fooled in that deal. We're going out to-night for a little drive."

Not till the next night did Culhane return.

"I've just got time to tell you about what happened last night, Doc. We went off in my car down the street past Hayes' house. It was all lit up like a church. There was a hell of a lot of cars out in front, and I said the old man was giving a party. Then I told her I would have gone, but that I'd rather be with her. We drove way out in the country. She must of figured that it was time to begin payment, because when I put my arm around her she didn't do anything. I stopped the car under some trees. We

kissed each other some and she patted my cheek and ran her fingers through my hair. Then the damn little fool asked me if I loved her. I almost laughed in her face. But I said yes, and she took my face in both her hands and kissed me again. She says, 'I love you, too.' That's a new line for carnival women; none of 'em ever pulled that one on me before. I expected her to put the works on me any minute for a little dough, but no soap. After a while we drove back and I kissed her good-night after telling her I'd sure be there to-day. I saw her this afternoon for about half an hour. To-morrow afternoon we're goin' walking; I'll bring her by here so you can take a slant at her. So long."

Friday morning Culhane strolled in and began to play pool. "How do you like my blue-eyed baby?"

"Not bad," said Doc. "Isn't it about time for her to come across?"

"To hell with her. She thinks she's too good for the boys around here. Here's what happened. Last night after the show was over and the lights were out we went and sat under that big willow tree at the edge of the grounds. We had our arms around each other and didn't say a word. I could feel her heart beating. Pretty soon she asked me if I still loved her. So I said, 'Hell, yes,' and told her how I'd miss her when she had gone off with the show. She couldn't see my face when I was telling her all this because her's was on my chest. The first thing I knew she was crying and saying she wouldn't go 'way and she was going to stay here with me. I just about decided she wasn't going to pull that old one, but there she was getting teary, so I decided it was pay day. I pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. She had one hand over her eyes and was leaning on the other with her back to me. I pushed the bill between the fingers of the hand on the ground. 'There you are, sweetie,' I says; 'that'll pay your rent.' She raised her head and held the jack up to the light, then droped it. 'Oh, Jim,' she says, 'what do you think I am?'

""Why, you damn little golddigger,' I came back, 'what in hell do you think you're worth?' I laughed at her. She was on her face in the grass. I said, 'Good-night, dearie. I'll come around again when the market isn't so high.' When I got to the street I looked back and she was still laying there. I guess that little act is over. She was pretty, but too damn crafty. I'm going out

with Mamie to-morrow night. Fifty bucks listens good to her. It's the last night of the show, anyway, and Mamie and me understand each other pretty well."

Sunday morning brought Culhane.

"Did you hear what happened to my little sweetie last night? She's dead. They found her up on Hayes' steps. I guess I'm the only guy that knows the whole story. You know I told you I was taking Mamie out Saturday night after the whole show was over. I had my car and some gin and I picked Mamie up out here on the corner about one. After a few shots she got confidential as all hell-you know how they do and started to tell me all about Mary. She said Mary used to tell them in the dressing room what a wonderful man was in love with her and how his name was Hayes and that he lived in the big house on the hill. Yesterday they were walking down the street together and they saw me, but I didn't see them. Mary pointed me out to Mamie and of course Mamie told her that she was crazy and that my name was Culhane and I ran a saloon. After every sentence she told me Mamie laughed till she choked. Yesterday afternoon in the dressing room Mamie spilled it to the rest of the gang and they must of kidded the life out of my little lover, because she didn't show up at all for the evening show.

"We came back about four. All the tents were down except one. I had to carry Mamie over to it. When I put her down she kissed me for the thousandth time and while we were standing there together closer than if we'd been tied, Mary steps out of the tent. Her eyes were red as hell and her hair was all mussed up. She was so white I was expecting her to flop any minute. I pushed Mamie away, but she couldn't stand up by herself and fell flat, laughing like a fool. Mary didn't look at her. She just said, 'Is your name Culhane?' I was feeling good, so I said, 'Sure it is, dearie, and how's business?" She threw that bill I'd given her on Mamie and went back in. I left Mamie laying there, but I took the money.

"That's the last I saw of either of 'em. This morning I saw in the paper that they found my pure little Mary dead up at Hayes' front steps. The paper said it was from exhaustion. What the hell did she go up there for after she knew my name wasn't Hayes?"

STANTON KENNEDY.