CHAPTER XXVI
Number Eighteen was a big compartment or cage in the dog row,
large enough with due comfort for a dozen Irish terriers like
Michael. For Harris Collins was scientific. Dogs on vacation,
boarding at the Cedarwild Animal School, were given every
opportunity to recuperate from the hardships and wear and tear of
from six months to a year and more on the road. It was for this
reason that the school was so popular a boarding-place for
performing animals when the owners were on vacation or out of
"time." Harris Collins kept his animals clean and comfortable and
guarded from germ diseases. In short, he renovated them against
their next trips out on vaudeville time or circus engagement.
To the left of Michael, in Number Seventeen, were five grotesquely
clipped French poodles. Michael could not see them, save when he
was being taken out or brought back, but he could smell them and
hear them, and, in his loneliness, he even started a feud of
snarling bickeringness with Pedro, the biggest of them who acted
as clown in their turn. They were aristocrats among performing
animals, and Michael's feud with Pedro was not so much real as
play-acted. Had he and Pedro been brought together they would
have made friends in no time. But through the slow monotonous
drag of the hours they developed a fictitious excitement and
interest in mouthing their quarrel which each knew in his heart of
hearts was no quarrel at all.
In Number Nineteen, on Michael's right, was a sad and tragic
company. They were mongrels, kept spotlessly and germicidally
clean, who were unattached and untrained. They composed a sort of
reserve of raw material, to be worked into established troupes
when an extra one or a substitute was needed. This meant the hell
of the arena where the training went on. Also, in spare moments,
Collins, or his assistants, were for ever trying them out with all
manner of tricks in the quest of special aptitudes on their parts.
Thus, a mongrel semblance to a cooker spaniel of a dog was tried
out for several days as a pony-rider who would leap through paper
hoops from the pony's back, and return upon the back again. After
several falls and painful injuries, it was rejected for the feat
and tried out as a plate-balancer. Failing in this, it was made
into a see-saw dog who, for the rest of the turn, filled into the
background of a troupe of twenty dogs.
Number Nineteen was a place of perpetual quarrelling and pain.
Dogs, hurt in the training, licked their wounds, and moaned, or
howled, or were irritable to excess on the slightest provocation.
Always, when a new dog entered--and this was a regular happening,
for others were continually being taken away to hit the road--the
cage was vexed with quarrels and battles, until the new dog, by
fighting or by non resistance, had commanded or been taught its
proper place.
Michael ignored the denizens of Number Nineteen. They could sniff
and snarl belligerently across at him, but he took no notice,
reserving his companionship for the play-acted and perennial
quarrel with Pedro. Also, Michael was out in the arena more often
and far longer hours than any of them.
"Trust Harry not to make a mistake on a dog," was Collins's
judgment; and constantly he strove to find in Michael what had
made Del Mar declare him a ten strike and the limit.
Every indignity, in the attempt to find out, was wreaked upon
Michael. They tried him at hurdle-jumping, at walking on fore-
legs, at pony-riding, at forward flips, and at clowning with other
dogs. They tried him at waltzing, all his legs cord-fastened and
dragged and jerked and slacked under him. They spiked his collar
in some of the attempted tricks to keep him from lurching from
side to side or from falling forward or backward. They used the
whip and the rattan stick; and twisted his nose. They attempted
to make a goal-keeper of him in a football game between two teams
of pain-driven and pain-bitten mongrels. And they dragged him up
ladders to make him dive into a tank of water.
Even they essayed to make him "loop the loop"--rushing him down an
inclined trough at so high speed of his legs, accelerated by the
slash of whips on his hindquarters, that, with such initial
momentum, had he put his heart and will into it, he could have
successfully run up the inside of the loop, and across the inside
of the top of it, back-downward, like a fly on the ceiling, and on
and down and around and out of the loop. But he refused the will
and the heart, and every time, when he was unable at the beginning
to leap sideways out of the inclined trough, he fell grievously
from the inside of the loop, bruising and injuring himself.
"It isn't that I expect these things are what Harry had in mind,"
Collins would say, for always he was training his assistants; "but
that through them I may get a cue to his specially, whatever in
God's name it is, that poor Harry must have known."
Out of love, at the wish of his love-god, Steward, Michael would
have striven to learn these tricks and in most of them would have
succeeded. But here at Cedarwild was no love, and his own
thoroughbred nature made him stubbornly refuse to do under
compulsion what he would gladly have done out of love. As a
result, since Collins was no thoroughbred of a man, the clashes
between them were for a time frequent and savage. In this
fighting Michael quickly learned he had no chance. He was always
doomed to defeat. He was beaten by stereotyped formula before he
began. Never once could he get his teeth into Collins or Johnny.
He was too common-sensed to keep up the battling in which he would
surely have broken his heart and his body and gone dumb mad.
Instead, he retired into himself, became sullen, undemonstrative,
and, though he never cowered in defeat, and though he was always
ready to snarl and bristle his hair in advertisement that inside
he was himself and unconquered, he no longer burst out in furious
anger.
After a time, scarcely ever trying him out on a new trick, the
chain and Johnny were dispensed with, and with Collins he spent
all Collins's hours in the arena. He learned, by bitter lessons,
that he must follow Collins around; and follow him he did, hating
him perpetually and in his own body slowly and subtly poisoning
himself by the juices of his glands that did not secrete and flow
in quite their normal way because of the pressure put upon them by
his hatred.
The effect of this, on his body, was not perceptible. This was
because of his splendid constitution and health. Wherefore, since
the effect must be produced somewhere, it was his mind, or spirit,
or nature, or brain, or processes of consciousness, that received
it. He drew more and more within himself, became morose, and
brooded much. All of which was spiritually unhealthful. He, who
had been so merry-hearted, even merrier-hearted than his brother
Jerry, began to grow saturnine, and peevish, and ill-tempered. He
no longer experienced impulses to play, to romp around, to run
about. His body became as quiet and controlled as his brain.
Human convicts, in prisons, attain this quietude. He could stand
by the hour, to heel to Collins, uninterested, infinitely bored,
while Collins tortured some mongrel creature into the performance
of a trick.
And much of this torturing Michael witnessed. There were the
greyhounds, the high-jumpers and wide-leapers. They were willing
to do their best, but Collins and his assistants achieved the
miracle, if miracle it may be called, of making them do better
than their best. Their best was natural. Their better than best
was unnatural, and it killed some and shortened the lives of all.
Rushed to the spring-board and the leap, always, after the take-
off, in mid-air, they had to encounter an assistant who stood
underneath, an extraordinarily long buggy-whip in hand, and lashed
them vigorously. This made them leap from the springboard beyond
their normal powers, hurting and straining and injuring them in
their desperate attempt to escape the whip-lash, to beat the whip-
lash in the air and be past ere it could catch their flying flanks
and sting them like a scorpion.
"Never will a jumping dog jump his hardest," Collins told his
assistants, "unless he's made to. That's your job. That's the
difference between the jumpers I turn out and some of these dub
amateur-jumping outfits that fail to make good even on the bush
circuits."
Collins continually taught. A graduate from his school, an
assistant who received from him a letter of recommendation,
carried a high credential of a sheepskin into the trained-animal
world.
"No dog walks naturally on its hind legs, much less on its
forelegs," Collins would say. "Dogs ain't built that way. THEY
HAVE TO BE MADE TO, that's all. That's the secret of all animal
training. They have to. You've got to make them. That's your
job. Make them. Anybody who can't, can't make good in this
factory. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, and get busy."
Michael saw, without fully appreciating, the use of the spiked
saddle on the bucking mule. The mule was fat and good-natured the
first day of its appearance in the arena. It had been a pet mule
in a family of children until Collins's keen eyes rested on it;
and it had known only love and kindness and much laughter for its
foolish mulishness. But Collins's eyes had read health, vigour,
and long life, as well as laughableness of appearance and action
in the long-eared hybrid.
Barney Barnato he was renamed that first day in the arena, when,
also, he received the surprise of his life. He did not dream of
the spike in the saddle, nor, while the saddle was empty, did it
press against him. But the moment Samuel Bacon, a negro tumbler,
got into the saddle, the spike sank home. He knew about it and
was prepared. But Barney, taken by surprise, arched his back in
the first buck he had ever made. It was so prodigious a buck that
Collins eyes snapped with satisfaction, while Sam landed a dozen
feet away in the sawdust.
"Make good like that," Collins approved, "and when I sell the mule
you'll go along as part of the turn, or I miss my guess. And it
will be some turn. There'll be at least two more like you, who'll
have to be nervy and know how to fall. Get busy. Try him again."
And Barney entered into the hell of education that later won his
purchaser more time than he could deliver over the best vaudeville
circuits in Canada and the United States. Day after day Barney
took his torture. Not for long did he carry the spiked saddle.
Instead, bare-back, he received the negro on his back, and was
spiked and set bucking just the same; for the spike was now
attached to Sam's palm by means of leather straps. In the end,
Barney became so "touchy" about his back that he almost began
bucking if a person as much as looked at it. Certainly, aware of
the stab of pain, he started bucking, whirling, and kicking
whenever the first signal was given of some one trying to mount
him.
At the end of the fourth week, two other tumblers, white youths,
being secured, the complete, builded turn was performed for the
benefit of a slender, French-looking gentleman, with waxed
moustaches. In the end he bought Barney, without haggling, at
Collins's own terms and engaged Sammy and the other two tumblers
as well. Collins staged the trick properly, as it would be staged
in the theatre, even had ready and set up all the necessary
apparatus, and himself acted as ringmaster while the prospective
purchaser looked on.
Barney, fat as butter, humorous-looking, was led into the square
of cloth-covered steel cables and cloth-covered steel uprights.
The halter was removed and he was turned loose. Immediately he
became restless, the ears were laid back, and he was a picture of
viciousness.
"Remember one thing," Collins told the man who might buy. "If you
buy him, you'll be ringmaster, and you must never, never spike
him. When he comes to know that, you can always put your hands on
him any time and control him. He's good-natured at heart, and
he's the gratefullest mule I've ever seen in the business. He's
just got to love you, and hate the other three. And one warning:
if he goes real bad and starts biting, you'll have to pull out his
teeth and feed him soft mashes and crushed grain that's steamed.
I'll give you the recipe for the digestive dope you'll have to put
in. Now--watch!"
Collins stopped into the ring and caressed Barney, who responded
in the best of tempers and tried affectionately to nudge and shove
past on the way out of the ropes to escape what he knew was
coming.
"See," Collins exposited. "He's got confidence in me. He trusts
me. He knows I've never spiked him and that I always save him in
the end. I'm his good Samaritan, and you'll have to be the same
to him if you buy him.--Now I'll give you your spiel. Of course,
you can improve on it to suit yourself."
The master-trainer walked out of the rope square, stepped forward
to an imaginary line, and looked down and out and up as if he were
gazing at the pit of the orchestra beneath him, across at the body
of the house, and up into the galleries.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he addressed the sawdust emptiness before
him as if it were a packed audience, "this is Barney Barnato, the
biggest joker of a mule ever born. He's as affectionate as a
Newfoundland puppy--just watch--"
Stepping back to the ropes, Collins extended his hand across them,
saying: "Come here, Barney, and show all these people who you
love best."
And Barney twinkled forward on his small hoofs, nozzled the open
hand, and came closer, nozzling up the arm, nudging Collins's
shoulders with his nose, half-rearing as if to get across the
ropes and embrace him. What he was really doing was begging and
entreating Collins to take him away out of the squared ring from
the torment he knew awaited him.
"That's what it means by never spiking him," Collins shot at the
man with the waxed moustaches, as he stepped forward to the
imaginary line in the sawdust, above the imaginary pit of the
orchestra, and addressed the imaginary house.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Barney Barnato is a josher. He's got forty
tricks up each of his four legs, and the man don't live that he'll
let stick on big back for sixty seconds. I'm telling you this in
fair warning, before I make my proposition. Looks easy, doesn't
it?--one minute, the sixtieth part of an hour, to be precise,
sixty seconds, to stick on the back of an affectionate josher mule
like Barney. Well, come on you boys and broncho riders. To
anybody who sticks on for one minute I shall immediately pay the
sum of fifty dollars; for two whole, entire minutes, the sum of
five hundred dollars."
This was the cue for Samuel Bacon, who advanced across the
sawdust, awkward and grinning and embarrassed, and apparently was
helped up to the stage by the extended hand of Collins.
"Is your life insured?" Collins demanded.
Sam shook his head and grinned.
"Then what are you tackling this for?"
"For the money," said Sam. "I jes' naturally needs it in my
business."
"What is your business?"
"None of your business, mister." Here Sam grinned ingratiating
apology for his impertinence and shuffled on his legs. "I might
be investin' in lottery tickets, only I ain't. Do I get the
money?--that's OUR business."
"Sure you do," Collins replied. "When you earn it. Stand over
there to one side and wait a moment.--Ladies and gentlemen, if you
will forgive the delay, I must ask for more volunteers.--Any more
takers? Fifty dollars for sixty seconds. Almost a dollar a
second . . . if you win. Better! I'll make it a dollar a second.
Sixty dollars to the boy, man, woman, or girl who sticks on
Barney's back for one minute. Come on, ladies. Remember this is
the day of equal suffrage. Here's where you put it over on your
husbands, brothers, sons, fathers, and grandfathers. Age is no
limit.--Grandma, do I get you?" he uttered directly to what must
have been a very elderly lady in a near front row.--"You see," (to
the prospective buyer), "I've got the entire patter for you. You
could do it with two rehearsals, and you can do them right here,
free of charge, part of the purchase."
The next two tumblers crossed the sawdust and were helped by
Collins up to the imaginary stage.
"You can change the patter according to the cities you're in," he
explained to the Frenchman. "It's easy to find out the names of
the most despised and toughest neighbourhoods or villages, and
have the boys hail from them."
Continuing the patter, Collins put the performance on. Sam's
first attempt was brief. He was not half on when he was flung to
the ground. Half a dozen attempts, quickly repeated, were
scarcely better, the last one permitting him to remain on Barney's
back nearly ten seconds, and culminating in a ludicrous fall over
Barney's head. Sam withdrew from the ring, shaking his head
dubiously and holding his side as if in pain. The other lads
followed. Expert tumblers, they executed most amazing and side-
splitting fails. Sam recovered and came back. Toward the last,
all three made a combined attack on Barney, striving to mount him
simultaneously from different slants of approach. They were
scattered and flung like chaff, sometimes falling heaped together.
Once, the two white boys, standing apart as if recovering breath,
were mowed down by Sam's flying body.
"Remember, this is a real mule," Collins told the man with the
waxed moustaches. "If any outsiders butt in for a hack at the
money, all the better. They'll get theirs quick. The man don't
live who can stay on his back a minute . . . if you keep him
rehearsed with the spike. He must live in fear of the spike.
Never let him slow up on it. Never let him forget it. If you lay
off any time for a few days, rehearse him with the spike a couple
of times just before you begin again, or else he might forget it
and queer the turn by ambling around with the first outside rube
that mounts him.
"And just suppose some rube, all hooks of arms and legs and hands,
is managing to stick on anyway, and the minute is getting near up.
Just have Sam here, or any of your three, slide in and spike him
from the palm. That'll be good night for Mr. Rube. You can't
lose, and the audience'll laugh its fool head off.
"Now for the climax! Watch! This always brings the house down.
Get busy you two!--Sam! Ready!"
While the white boys threatened to mount Barney from either side
and kept his attention engaged, Sam, from outside, in a sudden fit
of rage and desperation, made a flying dive across the ropes and
from in front locked arms and legs about Barney's neck, tucking
his own head close against Barney's head. And Barney reared up on
his hind legs, as he had long since learned from the many palm-
spikings he had received on head and neck.
"It's a corker," Collins announced, as Barney, on his hind legs,
striking vainly with his fore, struggled about the ring. "There's
no danger. He'll never fall over backwards. He's a mule, and
he's too wise. Besides, even if he does, all Sam has to do is let
go and fall clear."
The turn over, Barney gladly accepted the halter and was led out
of the square ring and up to the Frenchman.
"Long life there--look him over," Collins continued to sell.
"It's a full turn, including yourself, four performers, besides
the mule, and besides any suckers from the audience. It's all
ready to put on the boards, and dirt cheap at five thousand."
The Frenchman winced at the sum.
"Listen to arithmetic," Collins went on. "You can sell at twelve
hundred a week at least, and you can net eight hundred certain.
Six weeks of the net pays for the turn, and you can book a hundred
weeks right off the bat and have them yelling for more. Wish I
was young and footloose. I'd take it out on the road myself and
coin a fortune."
And Barney was sold, and passed out of the Cedarwild Animal School
to the slavery of the spike and to be provocative of much joy and
laughter in the pleasure-theatre of the world.
