XXI
“LADIES an’ gen’leman,” Simpson announced, “I’m from Texas. I’m from Texas where they valyoo friendship morethanmoney. An’ what I’m goin’ to tell yuh is betweenman an’ man.” He straightened up with dignity. “I’m thepro-prietor o’ this show. I’m monarch of all I survey.”
He waved his hand from the display of his wife’s shoulders in the ticket office to the oil canvases of the Indian nautch girls, the skeleton man, the “Wizard of the West,” the “Demon Diavolo” eating fire, and the “Modern Samson” lifting ton weights—to the three Queens of the Harem, sitting onthe platform with “Shine,” under the flare of a gasoline “torch”—to the curtained door that led into the “Alhambra of Mystic Marvels and Persian Beauty Show.”
He screamed with a sudden inconsequent passion: “I don’t hire men to come out here an’ lie to yuh! No! I’m tryin’ to make an hones’ livin’ fer myself an’ the fines’ comp’ny o’performers that ever appeared together under one management on Coney Island!” He wiped his forehead. He lowered his voice. “An’ to tell youse the truth, boys, it’s the toughest proposition I ever went up against.”
It was a Saturday night, and the Island walks were crowded. “Shine” was looking down on a throng of white faces and eyes that shone in the light. They laughed.
“I know!” Simpson cried. “Yuh’ve been faked. Yuh’ve been payin’ good money to see a lot o’ ham-fatters an’ chair-warmers—a lot o’ stiffs that couldn’t get hired fer a supper-show up in the city. Ain’t that right?”
One of his “boosters” in the back of the crowd shouted, “That’s what’s the matter!”
Simpson threw up his hands. “That’s it! That’s it! An’ because I don’t come out here an’ promise to give yuh more ’n I got, yuh don’t believe me. An’ I got the bes’ show on the Island, barrin’ an’ exceptin’none! A show that on’y costs one dime to witness—an’ it’s worth a dollar if it’s worth a cent!”
He made a sign to the platform. “Shine” and the three beauties in tights and tinsel stood up. One of the latterwas chewing gum with a pensive movement of the under jaw.
“First an’ foremost, let me tell yuh,” he said, “I got Kulder, the Hindoo snake-charmer, sword-swallower, an’ fire-eater.” He pointed to “Shine.” “Bein’ a native o’ Calcutter, where he was employed by the Hindoo fire-department, he was kicked out three years ago by the Durbar because he wouldn’t turn water on a blaze. No! He wanted t’ eat the flames!”
The crowd grinned. “Shine” scowled.
Simpson went on: “He’ll drink anythin’ from boiled bay rum to knockout drops. He’ll walk barefoot from here to the Batt’ry to get a look at a fire-boat. He’s the simplest an’ sulkiest an’ treacherest damn fool of a Hindoothat ever put up a game on a partner. An’ he don’t understan’ a word yuh say!”
“Shine” muttered to himself. Simpson launched out into a glowing description of the Beauties of his Persian Harem. He could not bring them all out on the platform. The police, he whispered, would not let him. But excepting the secret palace of the Sultan of Turkey, there was nothing to equal it on this side of Madagascar! Nuthin’!
As for the canvases overhead, they spoke for themselves. They represented “truthfully an’ withoutex-aggeration” a small part of the mystic marvels to be seen on the inside for the small price of a dime, ten cents. “A dime! A dime!” he cried. “All free fer a dime!”
The boy struck up a staggering melodyon the mechanical piano. “Shine” and the Beauties retreated through the curtains. The “boosters” began to shove the crowd in towards the ticket office in a pretence of eagerness to get good seats for themselves, confiding to their neighbors that they had heard it was “the goods, all right, inside.” They paid and passed in; and at least a score of gulls followed them with more or less doubtfulness.
That was the first “push,” and it was Simpson’s habit to make two “pushes” before he gave his performance.
While he was inside, waiting for a new audience to gather out in front, “Shine” accosted him again. “Are yuh goin’ to gi’ me them boots?”
“Sure thing,” he promised airily. “Soon ’s I get good an’ ready.”
“Shine” nodded and went back to hisplace behind the curtains. Simpson saw nothing new in the fireman’s manner. He had been taunting “Shine” all afternoon with platform insults—which “Shine” had endured in silence because he had not understood them—and Simpson had mistaken stupor for meekness.
The net was spread for the second “push” in the same manner as for the first, though in briefer language, for there was now an impatient roomful inside, listening.
“An’ here,” Simpson cried, “we have the famous Hindoo snake-charmer. A pure Brahma—look at his feet. This man, ladies an’ gen’lemen, lives on dope! He wears no socks. Why? Why does he wear no socks?Be-cause he swapped them this mornin’ fer a quart o’ knockout drops! While ’n under th’influence o’ that noxious drug, he’ll swally anythin’—live fire, nails, carpet tacks, jollies er anythin’ else yuh throw into him. He—”
“Are yuh goin’ to gi’ me them boots?” “Shine” growled.
The crowd heard him and drew in closer, scenting trouble. Simpson heard him and veered off. “An’ next we have three ladies from th’ Imperial Harem o’ Madagascar—”
“Are yuh goin’ to gi’ me them boots?”
Simpson raised his voice to drown the laughter. “Three o’ the faires’ flowers in Eastern womanhood! On th’ inside we have no less ’n twenty-seven—”
“He’s a liar!” “Shine” shouted to the crowd. “He’s a liar. He’s got nuthin’ at all inside. He’s a liar an’ a fakir. He promised me a pair o’boots! He’s a liar an’ a fakir! He’s—”
Simpson leaped on him. The three frightened Beauties jumped screaming into the arms of the crowd. In another minute the whole front of the “Alhambra” was shaking with the uproar of a riot.
The blaze, caught at close range, seemed to snuff out
See page 90
“Shine” was a Bowery fighter. He turned in Simpson’s clutch and threw him, and while the “boosters” were forcing their way to the platform to aid their employer, he pounded Simpson in a fury. It was impossible to separate him from his struggling victim, so they dragged him from the platform, and Simpson with him; and then some of the roughs in the crowd raised a cry of “Fair fight there! Fair fight!” and attacked the boosters. In the midst of ita gang of Coney thieves made a raid on the ticket office, and Mrs. Simpson’s wild yells rose above the tumult in a shrill appeal for help.
There followed a free fight and a general scramble for the gate receipts.
It lasted until the policeman on that beat called out the reserves to clear the street; and when these turned their attention to the cause of the disorder, a solitary gasoline torch, above the ballyhoo platform, shone on the deserted wreck of the “Alhambra” front. The boosters had made their escape by the back way. “Butts” had deserted his piano, and was sitting in the New England Kitchen greedily inhaling the smoke of a cigarette. The Beauties of the Harem were whispering together in their dressing-room; and one of themhad an air of inward apprehension natural to a young woman who had swallowed her chewing gum.
Mrs. Simpson was in the back room, bathing her husband’s face. “Shine,” alone in the Hall of Mystic Marvels, dressed in his own trousers and a coat and cap that belonged to “Butts,” received the police with a battered grin.
“’S all right,” he said. “A gang o’ strong arms tried to rush the ticket office. I guess they got away with ev’rythin’ but this.” He showed a torn five-dollar bill. “The boss’s in the back.”
He pointed the way to them. When they came out again, with another version of the trouble, he had disappeared.