 | Hoosier mosaics |  |
Trout's Luck.
As early as eight o'clock the grand entrance
gateway to the Kokomo fair ground was
thronged with vehicles of almost every kind;
horsemen, pedestrians, dogs and dust were
borne forward together in clouds that boiled
and swayed and tumbled. Noise seemed to
be the chief purpose of every one and the one
certain result of every thing in the crowd.
This had been advertised as the merriest
day that might ever befall the quiet, honest
folk of the rural regions circumjacent to
Kokomo, and it is even hinted that aristocratic
dames and business plethoric men of the town
itself had caught somewhat of the excitement
spread abroad by the announcement in the
county papers, and by huge bills posted in
conspicuous places, touching Le Papillon and
his monster balloon, which balloon and which
Le Papillon were pictured to the life, on the
said posters, in the act of sailing over the sun,
and under the picture, in remarkably distinct
letters, “No humbug! go to the fair!”
Dozier's minstrel troupe was dancing and
singing attendance on this agricultural exhibition,
too, and somebody's whirling pavilion,
a shooting gallery, a monkey show, the glass
works, and what not of tempting promises of
entertainments, “amusing and instructive.”
Until eleven o'clock the entrance gateway
to the fair ground was crowded. Farm wagons
trundled in, drawn by sleek, well fed plough
nags, and stowed full of smiling folk, old and
young, male and female, from the out townships;
buggies with youths and maidens, the
sparkle of breastpins and flutter of ribbons;
spring wagons full of students and hard bats
from town; carriages brimming with laces,
flounces, over skirts, fancy kid gloves, funny
little hats and less bonnets, all fermented into
languid ebullition by mild-eyed ladies; omnibuses
that bore fleshy gentlemen, who wore
linen dusters and silk hats and smoked fine
cigars; and jammed in among all these were
boys on skittish colts, old fellows on flea-bit
gray mares, with now and then a reckless
stripling on a mule. Occasionally a dog got
kicked or run over, giving the assistance of
his howls and yelps to the general din, and
over all the dust hung heavily in a yellow
cloud, shot through with the lightning of burnished
thunder of the trampling, shouting rumbling
multitude. Indeed, that hot aguish autumn
day let fall its sunshine on the heads and blew
its feverish breath through the rifts of the
greatest and liveliest mass of people ever
assembled in Howard county.
Inside the extensive enclosure the multitude
divided itself into streams, ponds, eddies, refluent
currents and noisy whirlpools of people.
Some rare attraction was everywhere.
Early in the day the eyes of certain of the
rustic misses followed admiringly the forms of
Jack Trout and Bill Powell, handsome young
fellows dressed in homespun clothes, who,
arm in arm, strolled leisurely across the
grounds, looking sharply about for some
proper place to begin the expenditure of what
few dimes they had each been able to hoard
up against this gala day. They had not long
to hunt. On every hand the “hawkers
hawked their wares.”
Rising and falling, tender-toned, deftly managed,
a voice rang out across the crowd pleading
with those who had long desired a good
investment for their money, and begging them
to be sure and not let slip this last golden
opportunity.
“Only a half a dollah! Come right along
this way now! Here's the great golden scheme
by which thousands have amassed untold fortunes!
Here's your only and last chance to
get two ounces of first class candy, with the
probability of five dollars in gold coin, all for
the small sum of half a dollah! And the cry
is—still they come!”
The speaker was such a man as one often
observes in a first class railway car, with a
stout valise beside him containing samples,
dressed with remarkable care, and ever on the
alert to make one's acquaintance. He stood
on top of a small table or tripod, holding in
his hand a green pasteboard package just
taken from a box at his feet.
“Only a half a dollah and a fortune in your
grasp! Here's the gold! Roll right this way
and run your pockets over!”
Drifting round with the tide of impulsive
pleasure seekers into which they happened to
fall, Jack Trout and Bill Powell floated past a
bevy of lasses, the prettiest of whom was
Minny Hart, a girl whose healthy, vivid beauty
was fast luring Jack on to the rock of matrimonial
proposals.
“Jimminy, but ain't she a little sweety!”
exclaimed the latter, pinching Bill's arm as
they passed, and glancing lovingly at Minny.
“You're tellin' the truth and talkin' it
smooth,” replied Bill, bowing to the girls with
the swagger peculiar to a rustic who imagines
he has turned a fine period. And with fluttering
hearts the boys passed on.
“Roll on ye torrents! Only a half a dollah!
Right this way if you want to become a bloated
aristocrat in less than no time! Five dollahs
in gold for only a half a dollah! And whose
the next lucky man?”
Blown by the fickle, gusty breath of luck,
our two young friends were finally wafted to
the feet of this oily vendor of prize packages,
and they there lodged, becalmed in breathless
interest, to await their turn, each full of faith
in the yellow star of his fortune—a gold coin
of the value of five dollars. They stood attentively
watching the results of other men's investments,
feeling their fingers tingle when
now and then some lucky fellow drew the coveted
prize. Five dollars is a mighty temptation
to a poor country boy in Indiana. That
sum will buy oceans of fun at a fair where
almost any “sight” is to be seen for the
“small sum of twenty-five cents!”
Without stopping to take into consideration
the possible, or rather, the probable result of
such a venture, Bill Powell handed up his
major part of all the money he had, and stood
trembling with excitement while the fellow
broke open the chosen package. Was it significant
of anything that a blue jay fluttered
for a moment right over the crier's head just
at the point of his detaching some glittering
object from the contents of the box?
“Here you are, my friend; luck's a fortune!”
yelled the man, as he held the gold coin high
above his head, shaking it in full view of all
eyes in the multitude. “Here you are! which
'd you rather have, the gold or five and a half
in greenbacks?”
“Hand me in the rag chips—gold don't feel
good to my fingers,” answered Bill Powell,
swaggering again and grasping the currency
with a hand that shook with eagerness.
Jack Trout stood by, clutching in his feverish
palm a two-dollar bill. His face was pale,
his lips set, his muscles rigid. He hesitated
to trust in the star of his destiny. He stood
eyeing the bridge of Lodi, the dykes of Arcole.
Would he risk all on a bold venture? His
right shoulder began to twitch convulsively.
“Still it rolls, and who's the next lucky
man? Don't all speak at once! Who wants
five dollahs in gold and two ounces of delicious
dollah?”
Jack made a mighty effort and passed up
his two dollar bill.
“Bravely done; select your packages!”
cried the vendor. Jack tremblingly pointed
them out. Very carelessly and quietly the fellow
opened them, and with a ludicrous grimace
remarked—
“Eight ounces of mighty sweet candy, but
nary a prize! Better luck next time! Only a
half a dollah! And who's the next lucky man?”
A yell of laughter from the crowd greeted
this occurrence, and Jack floated back on the
recoiling waves of his chagrin till he was hidden
in the dense concourse, and the uppermost
thought in his mind found forcible expression
in the three monosyllables: “Hang
the luck!”
It is quite probable that of all the unfortunate
adventurers that day singed in the yellow
fire of that expert gambler's gold, Jack
recognized himself as the most terribly burned.
Putting his hands into his empty pockets, he
sauntered dolefully about, scarcely able to
look straight into the face of such friends as
he chanced to meet. He acted as if hunting
for something lost on the ground. Poor fellow,
treated him to a glass of lemonade, and, indeed,
so much were his feelings relieved by
the cool potation, that when, soon after, he met
Minny Hart, he was actually smiling.
“O, Jack!” cried the pretty girl, “I'm so
glad to see you just now, for I do want to go
into the minstrel show so bad!” She shot a
glance of coquettish tenderness right into Jack's
heart. For a single moment he was blessed,
but on feeling for his money and recalling the
luckless result of his late venture, he felt a
chill creep up his back, and a lump of the size
of his fist jump up into his throat. Here was
a bad affair for him. He stood for a single
point of time staring into the face of his
despair, then, acting on the only plan he could
think of to escape from the predicament, he
said:
“Wait a bit, Minny, I've got to go jist down
here a piece to see a feller. I'll be back
d'rectly. You stay right here and when I
come back I'll trot you in.”
So speaking, as if in a great hurry, and
sweating cold drops, with a ghastly smile
flickering on his face, the young man slipped
away into the crowd.
Minny failed to notice his confusion, and so
for I'm most dead to see the show!”
What could Trout do? He spun round and
round in that vast flood of people like a fish
with but one eye. He rushed here, he darted
there, and ever and anon, as a lost man returns
upon his starting point, he came in sight of
sweet Minny Hart patiently waiting for his
return. Then he would spring back into the
crowd like a deer leaping back into a thicket
at sight of a hunter. Penniless at the fair,
with Minny Hart waiting for him to take her
into the show! Few persons can realize how
keenly he now felt the loss of his money. He
ought, no doubt, to have told the lass at once
just how financial matters stood; but nothing
was more remote from his mind than doing
anything of the kind. He was too vain.
“Tell 'er I 'ain't got no money! No, sir-ee!”
he muttered. “But what am I to do? Bust
the luck! Hang the luck! Rot the luck!”
He hurried hither and thither, intent on
nothing and taking no heed of the course he
pursued. His cheeks were livid and his eyes
had in them that painful, worried, wistful look
so often seen in the eyes of men going home
from ruin on Wall street.
Meantime that sea of persons surged this
and dancing bubbles of hats, now flowing
slowly through the exhibition rooms a tide of
critics, now breaking into groups and scattered
throngs of babblers, anon uniting to roar
round some novel engine suddenly set to work,
or to break on the barrier of the trolling ring
into a spray of cravats and a mist of flounces.
Swimming round in this turbulent tide like a
crazy flounder with but one fin, Jack finally
found himself hard by the pavilion of the
minstrels. He could hear somewhat of the
side-splitting jokes, with the laughs that
followed, the tinkle of banjo accompaniments
and the mellow cadences of plantation songs,
the rattle of castanets and the tattoo of the jig
dancers' feet. A thirst like the thirst of fever
took hold of him.
“Come straight along gentlemen and ladies!
This celebrated troupe is now performing and
twenty-five cents pays the bill! Only a
quawtah of a dollah!” bawled the fat crier
from his lofty perch. “That's right, my young
man, take the young lady in! She's sure to
love you better; walk right along!”
Her eye am bright as wine,
Dat yaller little boogah
Her name am Emiline!”
within. The music thrilled Jack to the bone,
and he felt once more for his money. Not a
cent. This was bad.
“You're the lad for me,” continued the fat
man on the high seat; “take your nice little
sweetheart right in and let her see the fun.
Walk right in!”
Jack looked to see who it was, and a pang
shot through his heart and settled in the very
marrow of his bones; for lo! arm in arm, Bill
Powell and Minny Hart passed under the
pavilion into the full glory of the show!
An' feed me to de swine,
Don't care where I goes to
So I has Emiline!”
“Dast him, he's got me!” muttered Jack as
Bill and Minny disappeared within. He turned
away, sick at heart, and this was far from the
first throe of jealousy he had suffered on Bill's
account. Indeed it had given him no little
uneasiness lately to see how sweetly Minny
sometimes smiled on young Powell.
“Yes, sir,” Jack continued to mutter to
himself, “yes, sir, he's got me! He's about
says, an' I don't know but what I'm distanced.
Blow the blasted luck!”
Heartily tired of the fair, burning with rage,
and jealousy, and despair, but still vaguely
hoping against hope for some better luck from
some visionary source, Jack strolled about,
chewing the bitter cud of his feelings, his
hands up to his elbows in his trowser pockets
and his soul up to its ears in the flood of discontent.
He puckered his mouth into whistling
position, but it refused to whistle. He felt as
if he had a corn cob crossways in his throat.
The wind blew his new hat off and a mule
kicked the top out of the crown.
“Only a half a dollah! Who's the next
lucky man?” cried the prize package fellow.
“I'm now going to sell a new sort of packages,
each of which, beside the usual amount of
choice candy, contains a piece of jewelry of
pure gold! Who takes the first chance for
only a half a dollah?”
“'Ere's your mule!” answered Bill Powell,
as with Minny still clinging to his arm, he
pushed through the crowd and handed up the
money.
“Bravely done!” shouted the crier; “see
what a beautiful locket and chain! Luck's a
Come right along and don't be afraid of a little
risk! Only a half a dollah!”
Jack saw Bill put the glittering chain round
Minny's neck and fasten the locket in her belt;
saw the eyes of the sweet girl gleam proudly,
gratefully; saw black spots dancing before
his own eyes; saw Bill swagger and toss his
head. He turned dizzily away, whispering
savagely, “Dern 'im!”
Just here let me say that such an expression
is not a profane one. I once saw a preacher
kick at a little dog that got in his way on the
sidewalk. The minister's foot missed the
little dog and hit an iron fence, and the little
dog bit the minister's other leg and jumped
through the fence. The minister performed
a pas de zephyr and very distinctly said “Dern
'im!” Wherefore I don't think it can be anything
more than a mere puff of fretfulness.
After this Jack was for some time standing
near the entrance to the “glass-works,” a
place where transparent steam engines and
wonderful fountains were on exhibition. He
felt a grim delight in tantalizing himself with
looking at the pictures of these things and
wishing he had money enough to pay the
entrance fee. He saw persons pass in eagerly
their wives and children, young men with girls
on their arms, prominent among whom were
Bill and Minny, and one dapper sportsman
even bought a ticket for his setter, and, patting
the brute on the head, took him in.
“Onery nor a dog!” hissed Jack, shambling
off, and once more taking a long deep dive
under the surface of the crowd. A ground
swell cast him again near the vender of prize
packages.
“Only a half a dollah!” he yelled; “come
where fortune smiles, and cares and poverty
take flight, for only a half a dollah!”
“Jist fifty cents more'n I've got about my
clothes!” replied Jack, and the bystanders,
taking this for great wit, joined in a roar of
laughter, while with a grim smile the desperate
youth passed on till he found himself
near the toe mark of a shooting gallery, where
for five cents one might have two shots with
an air gun. He stood there for a time watching
a number of persons try their marksmanship.
It was small joy to know that he was
a fine off-hand shot, so long as he had not a
nickel in his pocket, but still he stood there
wishing he might try his hand.
“Cl'ar the track here! Let this 'ere lady
way was opened for Bill Powell and Minny
Hart. The little maiden was placed at the
toe mark and a gun given to her. She handled
the weapon like one used to it. She raised it,
shut one eye, took deliberate aim and fired.
“Centre!” roared the marker, as to the sound
of a bell the funny little puppet leaped up and
grinned above the target. Every body standing
near laughed and some of the boys cheered
vociferously. Minny looked sweeter than ever.
Jack Trout felt famished. He begged a chew
of tobacco of a stranger, and, grinding the
weed furiously, walked off to where the yellow
pavilion with its painted air-boats was whirling
its cargoes of happy boys and girls round
and round for the “Small sum of ten cents.”
A long, lean, red-headed fellow in one of the
boats was paying for a ride of limitless length
by scraping on a miserable fiddle. To Jack
this seemed small labor for so much fun. How
he envied the fiddler as he flew round, trailing
his tunes behind him!
“Wo'erp there! Stop yer old merchine!
We'll take a ride ef ye don't keer!”
The pavilion was stopped, a boat lowered
for Bill Powell and Minny Hart, who got in
side by side, and the fiddler struck up the
that happy couple go round and round, till,
by the increased velocity, their two faces
melted into one, which was neither Bill's nor
Minny's—it was Luck's!
“He's got one onto me,” muttered Jack;
“I've got no money, can't fiddle for a ride, nor
nothin', and I don't keer a ding what becomes
o' me, nohow!”
With these words Jack wended his way to a
remote part of the fair ground, where, under
gay awnings, the sutlers had spread their
tempting variety of cakes, pies, fruits, nuts
and loaves. Here were persons of all ages and
sizes—men, women and children—eating at
well supplied tables. The sight was a fascinating
one, and, though seeing others eat did not
in the least appease his own hunger, Jack
stood for a long time watching the departure
of pies and the steady lessening of huge pyramids
of sweet cakes. He particularly noticed
one little table that had on its centre a huge
peach pie, which table was yet unoccupied.
While he was actually thinking over the plan
of eating the pie and trusting to his legs to
bear him beyond the reach of a dun, Bill and
Minny sat down by the table and proceeded to
discuss the delicious, red-hearted heap of pastry.
At this point Bill caught Jack's eye:
“Come here, Jack,” said he; “this pie's
more'n we can eat, come and help us.”
“Yes, come along, Jack,” put in Minny in
her sweetest way; “I want to tell you what a
lot of fun we've had, and more than that, I
want to know why you didn't come back and
take me into the show!”
“I ain't hungry,” muttered Jack, “and besides
I've got to go see a feller.”
He turned away almost choking.
“Bill's got me. 'Taint no use talkin', I'm
played out for good. I'm a trumped Jack!”
He smiled a sort of flinty smile at his poor
wit, and shuffled aimlessly along through the
densest clots of the crowd.
And it so continued to happen, that wherever
Jack happened to stop for any considerable
length of time he was sure to see Bill and
Minny enjoying some rare treat, or disappearing
in or emerging from some place of amusement.
At last, driven to desperation, he determined
on trying to borrow a dollar from his father.
He immediately set about to find the old gentleman;
a task of no little difficulty in such a
crowd. It was Jack's forlorn hope, and it had
a gloomy outlook; for old 'Squire Trout was
thought by competent judges to be the stingiest
best, Jack hunted him here, there and everywhere,
till at length he met a friend who said
hc had seen the 'Squire in the act of leaving
the fair ground for home just a few minutes
before.
Taking no heed of what folks might say,
Jack, on receiving this intelligence, darted
across the ground, out at the gate and down
the road at a speed worthy of success; but
alas! his hopes were doomed to wilt. At the
first turn of the road he met a man who informed
him that he had passed 'Squire Trout
some three miles out on his way home, which
home was full nine miles distant!
Panting, crestfallen, defeated, done for, poor
Jack slowly plodded back to the fair ground
gate, little dreaming of the new trouble that
awaited him there.
“Ticket!” said a gruff voice as he was about
to pass in. He recoiled, amazed at his own
stupidity, as he recollected that hc had not
thought to get a check as he went out! He
tried to explain, but it was no go.
“You needn't try that game on me,” said
the gatekeeper. “So just plank down your
money or stay outside.”
Then Jack got furious, but the gatekeeper
thunder afore this!”
Jack smiled like a corpse and turned away.
Going a short distance down the road he climbed
up and sat down on top of the fence of a late
mown clover field. Then he took out his jack-knife
and began to whittle a splinter plucked
from a rail. His face was gloomy, his eyes
lustreless. Finally he stretched himself, hungry,
jealous, envious, hateful, on top of the
fence with his head between the crossed stakes.
His face thus upturned to heaven, he watched
two crows drift over, high up in the torrid
reaches of autumn air, hot as summer, even
hotter, and allowed his lips free privilege to
anathematize his luck. For a long time he lay
thus, dimly conscious of the blue bird's song
and the water-like ripple of the grass in the
fence corners. “Minny, Minny Hart, Minny!”
sang the meadow larks, and the burden of the
grasshopper's ditty was— “Only a half a
dollah!”
All at once there arose from the fair ground
a mighty chorus of yells, that went echoing off
across the country to the bluffs of Wild-cat
Creek and died far off in the woods toward
Greentown. Jack did not raise his head, but
lay there in a sort of morose stupor, knowing
no hand in it.
“Let 'em rip!” he muttered, “Bill's got me!”
Presently the wagons and other vehicles began
to leave the ground, from one of which he
caught the sound of a sweet, familiar voice.
He looked just in time to get a glimpse of Mr.
Hart's wagon, and in it, side by side, Bill Powell
and Minny! A cloud of yellow dust soon hid
them, and turning away his head, happening
to glance upward, Jack saw, just disappearing
in a thin white cloud, the golden disc of Le
Papillon's balloon!
He immediately descended from his perch
and began plodding his way home, muttering
as he did so—
“Dast the luck! Ding the prize package
feller! Doggone Bill Powell! Blame the old
b'loon! Dern everybody!”
It was long after nightfall when he reached
his father's gate. Hungry, weak, foot-sore,
collapsed, he leaned his chin on the top rail
of the gate and stood there for a moment while
the starlight fell around him, sifted through
the dusky foliage of the old beech trees, and
from the far dim caverns of the night a voice
smote on his ear, crying out tenderly, mockingly,
persuasively —
“Only a half a dollah!”
And Jack slipped to his room and went supperless
to bed, often during the night muttering,
through the interstices of his sleep—
“Bill's got me!”
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