The Snake-Oil Dickens Man. Ross Gilfillan
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d’you know? You seen pictures?’
‘No, I ain’t seen no photographs, but why would he claim to be this Dorlyon?’
‘Well, I heard tell, one time he went and sat in the seats of his own cirkis, jest like he was a reg’lar customer and when they was all applaudin’ and calling out for Barnum, he jest sat where he was and never let on.’
‘Kinda thing he might do, then?’
‘Sure is. Exactly so. He’s checking us out, making sure this town’s the one for his show. Looking over this hotel too, I reckon.’
‘Appears the part, I must say,’ said Merriweather. ‘Fancy clothes. And what’s that on his finger? A diamond?’
‘P.T. Barnum ain’t the man to wear paste,’ said Irving.
‘Well, Barnum or no Barnum, it don’t do to keep customers waiting,’ said the hotelier and hustled Irving out the door. Then he checked himself in the glass, sent me about my work and made his own regal entrance.
II
I didn’t see Mr D’Orleans again until dinner-time but I could tell the impression he was creating from the orders that were being sent to the kitchen. Mary Ann and the cook were preparing for dinner like it was Thanksgiving at the White House. I had come to help out but finished up only getting underfoot and Mary Ann loaded me up with a great bundle of bed-linen and sent me spinning across the yard towards the wash-house. My mother was there, as she always was, stirring sheets and shirts in the big copper tub. She said, ‘Lo, Billy,’ but she kept on stirring, her hair all over her eyes, as it ever was.
‘You all right, Ma?’ I said, for I had taken to using this appellation and from that you may deduce that my relationship with her had considerably improved from the day I had attempted to exorcise her from the back stoop.
‘I guess I am,’ she said.
‘Don’t look it, Ma,’ said I, ‘Merriweather getting at you agin?’
‘That man,’ she said.
‘He ain’t beat you again, has he?’ I said. ‘Because if he has …’
She stood up from the wash-tub and straightened herself. Whenever she did this I was surprised to see how much taller she was and how proud she could appear when she didn’t stoop and wasn’t so timid and servile.
‘You listen to me, Billy,’ she flashed, ‘I don’t want you meddling with nothing that happens ’twixt Melik and me; ’taint none of your business. Someone’s going to get hurt if you do that. Understand me now.’
Anger and burning frustration flared like foxfire, as it always did whenever I tried to touch upon the roots of things and asked why Merriweather was so blamed keen to keep us both at the Particular.
I said, ‘I don’t know that I do understand, Ma. It’s awful hard when he threatens you. He does it to keep me in line. What if we was both to go away from here? What then?’
‘Some things jest ain’t possible,’ she said, with grim simplicity, ‘and that’s one of ’em.’
‘I wish I could change your mind.’
‘Don’t worry yourself over me. Merriweather ain’t so bad.’ She plunged her arms into the water and began to pummel one of his shirts. ‘Any case,’ she said, ‘where could we go? Here, I got shelter and food.’
She paused a moment and then said, ‘But you’re getting to be an ejucated fellow, Billy, I can see you gotta look out for something better.’
I couldn’t tell her the nature of the threats Merriweather had made against the eventuality of my deciding to quit him and his hotel, so I let the matter drop and helped her with the laundry. After we had done, I said maybe we could talk more when I came to see her later. My mother occupied a room in a lean-to behind the wash-house and I had taken to visiting her for an hour; not mainly for conversation, because she wasn’t one for that, but to teach her to read and write. But it was beginning to look like she was either word-blind or quite as stupid as Merriweather said and the worst of it was, I could never seem to make out which. As I left the shed, she said, ‘T’aint just Merriweather, Billy!’
‘What do you mean, Ma? Who, then?’
She held out her arms which were lividly red up past the elbow and her hands, wrinkled as a corduroy road, closed me to her bosom.
‘Nobody, Billy. I didn’t mean that,’ she said. ‘Only sometimes little people get swept into a corner by the big folk and once they get themselves in that corner, there just ain’t no escapin’.’
III
D’Orleans and Wilkes were seated before the most sumptuous table I had ever laid at the Particular. I served them with turkey and chicken and ham and pork and every kind of vittle we had in the larder. Then I brought the wine and was startled, as much as injured, when Merriweather struck me hard for bringing out the second-best. He sent me to fetch bottles from his own stock, apologising to his guests all the while. When I had set wine and a box of cigars upon the table, Merriweather ventured to pull up a chair and address the opulently-attired Mr D’Orleans.
‘I’m told you are agents for Mr Barnum,’ he said, with a smile you might have hung cups on.
‘’Deed we are,’ said Wilkes, through his own chip-toothed grin. ‘Our job’s to make sure everything’s fine and dandy when the travelling museum comes to town. I’m in sole charge of advance publicity. Maybe you seen some of them bills I posted?’
Merriweather nodded but his eyes were fastened upon Mr D’Orleans who continued to eat, quite daintily; eating and observing, but so far without saying anything.
‘And a nation hard job it is,’ the thin man was saying. ‘Barnum demands the best and only the best will do.’
‘Barnum’s is a pretty bully show, ain’t it?’ said Merriweather.
‘Why I should say it is,’ said the man. ‘Best since C’ligula. It’s been laid before the kings and queens of Europe. Barnum give ’em the best seats hisself.’
‘Old Barnum must be making a sizeable pile of money,’ observed Merriweather, eyeing D’Orleans’ ring.
Here Mr D’Orleans slowly ground out his cigar and spoke.
‘The trick, as I’m sure you appreciate, is in spending money to make money.’
Merriweather nodded, eagerly.
‘If Barnum thinks whales are what the public wants to see, he catches them and shows them at the museum, regardless of expense. Barnum has men scouring the earth for fantastical novelties that will pull the city crowds through the doors of his American Museum or the country folk after his travelling circus. Do you know how much it costs Barnum to take this huge show about the states? But it doesn’t matter because Barnum knows he’ll get it back, and more. He spends money on seeing to it that his show is always the best and he also spends on publicising the name of Barnum. Investing and advertising, that’s Barnum’s trick.’
‘I got charge of that,’ said Wilkes, ‘I post the bills, get the puffs in the newspapers, spread the word, hang the bunting, maybe rustle up a band to play Barnum into town. That way, when the caravan turns up, there’s a crowd of customers there already, just begging him to take their dollars. Oh, I think I can say that Barnum knows my worth.’
‘Indeed he does,’ said Mr D’Orleans.
Merriweather regarded the bigger man with fascination.
‘Mind if I inquire what is your function, precisely?’ he said.
‘I call it attending to details,’ said D’Orleans. ‘Mr Barnum is accustomed to the best of everything. He can’t take his circus just anywhere. Everything has to be suitable. He can as easily set the show some place else. It’s not just a matter of a likely