of Mr. Albert in the long barn where the menagerie was housed. Nobody interfered with this, for nothing escaped the gimlet eyes of Sam Marvel and he saw that she was making herself useful by helping the old man to clean out the cages and feed the beasts.
Under Mr. Albert’s tutelage, she progressed in her courtship of the animals, and particularly, to her great delight, with Rajah the tiger, who first had ignored her but then, when she appeared more frequently at the side of Mr. Albert and dealt him his meat bone, began to take more of an interest in her, and even permitted her to touch him.
But the real conquest occurred one day when Rose turned up before his cage wearing some Californian Poppy scent to which she had treated herself at Woolworth out of her savings.
Rajah padded over, sniffing, then flopped down, turning on his side, making his satisfied noise in his throat, and pushed his head against the bars. Rose put her arm in, scratched and petted him, and he purred like a kitten.
Excitedly she called to Mr. Albert: “Look, look, Mr. Albert! Come here! He loves me!”
Mr. Albert came over and contemplated the phenomenon, sniffed himself, and said, “He likes that good smell you’ve got on.”
“Smell?”
“Sure, some of ’em love good smells. Didn’t you ever see a cat go around sniffing flowers?”
From that moment on, Rose doused herself with toilet water, until one night Jackdaw Williams asked, “What the hell is going on here? This place stinks like a whore’s boudoir.” But when she told him he only laughed and said no more about it.
It bothered Rose, however, that she was not loved entirely for herself, and one day she appeared scentless. Rajah came over just the same and played with her, while Mr. Albert watched fondly. Rapport had been established. Rose was happy. There was a monkey that adored her; Pockets, the kangaroo, was her friend; the small brown bear was obviously smitten; and her life took on a wholly new meaning. The love flowing from her warmed the menagerie, and for the first time in her life she had a fast, firm friend in the person of Mr. Albert.
Slowly but surely the performers and the tight, streamlined show rounded into shape. The three cats worked obediently enough for Fred Deeter, with Rose again assisting, but from outside the cage which pleased him and made up for the extra work he was called upon to do. And the youthful, handsome Toby in his glittering Indian potentate’s costume presenting Judy was as effective in the end as a whole ringful of pachyderms. Sam Marvel was satisfied with the outcome of his ideas.
Two full dress rehearsals, one for charity and the other for the inmates of the local orphanage, went off without a hitch. And in April they packed up, moved up country to Liverpool without incident, where they boarded ship and sailed to Spain. By mid-July they were showing in the heartland of the country, the broad, flat, seemingly limitless plain of La Mancha. They also found themselves in the midst of an appalling heat wave.
C H A P T E R
7
J ackdaw Williams, preceded by the insane shouting of the bird perched on his shoulder and followed by a burst of laughter and ripple of applause from the arena within, plunged through the exit curtains into the back-entrance enclosure.
“God Almighty!” he cried. “Have you seen her?”
He was dripping with sweat except where it had not been able to force its way through the thick make-up of the Auguste, the wide bands of vermilion forming the blubbery lips, the chalk-white of the eyelids, and the surprised circle of eyebrows painted with black crayon.
Fred Deeter, the American ex-cowbov, already perspiring in stock, white jodhpurs, and long-tailed red coat for his doubling as Signor Alfredo, said, “What’s up?”
The two Walters sisters who did the wire act had previously come off, their soaked costumes clinging to their slender bodies. In the arena Gogo and Panache with Janos, the Hungarian dwarf, were
Under Mr. Albert’s tutelage, she progressed in her courtship of the animals, and particularly, to her great delight, with Rajah the tiger, who first had ignored her but then, when she appeared more frequently at the side of Mr. Albert and dealt him his meat bone, began to take more of an interest in her, and even permitted her to touch him.
But the real conquest occurred one day when Rose turned up before his cage wearing some Californian Poppy scent to which she had treated herself at Woolworth out of her savings.
Rajah padded over, sniffing, then flopped down, turning on his side, making his satisfied noise in his throat, and pushed his head against the bars. Rose put her arm in, scratched and petted him, and he purred like a kitten.
Excitedly she called to Mr. Albert: “Look, look, Mr. Albert! Come here! He loves me!”
Mr. Albert came over and contemplated the phenomenon, sniffed himself, and said, “He likes that good smell you’ve got on.”
“Smell?”
“Sure, some of ’em love good smells. Didn’t you ever see a cat go around sniffing flowers?”
From that moment on, Rose doused herself with toilet water, until one night Jackdaw Williams asked, “What the hell is going on here? This place stinks like a whore’s boudoir.” But when she told him he only laughed and said no more about it.
It bothered Rose, however, that she was not loved entirely for herself, and one day she appeared scentless. Rajah came over just the same and played with her, while Mr. Albert watched fondly. Rapport had been established. Rose was happy. There was a monkey that adored her; Pockets, the kangaroo, was her friend; the small brown bear was obviously smitten; and her life took on a wholly new meaning. The love flowing from her warmed the menagerie, and for the first time in her life she had a fast, firm friend in the person of Mr. Albert.
Slowly but surely the performers and the tight, streamlined show rounded into shape. The three cats worked obediently enough for Fred Deeter, with Rose again assisting, but from outside the cage which pleased him and made up for the extra work he was called upon to do. And the youthful, handsome Toby in his glittering Indian potentate’s costume presenting Judy was as effective in the end as a whole ringful of pachyderms. Sam Marvel was satisfied with the outcome of his ideas.
Two full dress rehearsals, one for charity and the other for the inmates of the local orphanage, went off without a hitch. And in April they packed up, moved up country to Liverpool without incident, where they boarded ship and sailed to Spain. By mid-July they were showing in the heartland of the country, the broad, flat, seemingly limitless plain of La Mancha. They also found themselves in the midst of an appalling heat wave.
C H A P T E R
7
J ackdaw Williams, preceded by the insane shouting of the bird perched on his shoulder and followed by a burst of laughter and ripple of applause from the arena within, plunged through the exit curtains into the back-entrance enclosure.
“God Almighty!” he cried. “Have you seen her?”
He was dripping with sweat except where it had not been able to force its way through the thick make-up of the Auguste, the wide bands of vermilion forming the blubbery lips, the chalk-white of the eyelids, and the surprised circle of eyebrows painted with black crayon.
Fred Deeter, the American ex-cowbov, already perspiring in stock, white jodhpurs, and long-tailed red coat for his doubling as Signor Alfredo, said, “What’s up?”
The two Walters sisters who did the wire act had previously come off, their soaked costumes clinging to their slender bodies. In the arena Gogo and Panache with Janos, the Hungarian dwarf, were
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