Part 18 (1/2)
”Why DIDN'T she ride?” cried Douglas, in an agony of suspense.
”Dat's what I don' know, sah.” Mandy began to cry. It was the first time in his experience that Douglas had ever known her to give way to any such weakness. He walked up and down the room, uncertain what to do.
Hasty came down from the window and tried to put one arm about Mandy's shoulders.
”Leab me alone, you n.i.g.g.a!” she exclaimed, trying to cover her tears with a show of anger that she did not feel; then she rushed from the room, followed by Hasty.
The band was playing loudly; the din of the night performance was increasing. Douglas's nerves were strained to a point of breaking. He would not let himself go near the window. He stood by the side of the table, his fists clenched, and tried to beat back the impulse that was pulling him toward the door. Again and again he set his teeth.
It was uncertainty that gnawed at him so. Was she ill? Could she need him? Was she sorry for having left him? Would she be glad if he went for her and brought her back with him? He recalled the hysterical note in her behaviour the day that she went away; how she had pleaded, only a few moments before Jim came, never to be separated from him. Had she really cared for Jim and for the old life? Why had she never written?
Was she ashamed? Was she sorry for what she had done? What could it mean? He threw his hands above his head with a gesture of despair. A moment later, he pa.s.sed out into the night.
Chapter XIII
JIM was slow to-night. The big show was nearly over, yet many of the props used in the early part of the bill were still unloaded.
He was tinkering absent-mindedly with one of the wagons in the back lot, and the men were standing about idly, waiting for orders, when Barker came out of the main tent and called to him sharply:
”Hey, there, Jim! What's your excuse to-night?”
”Excuse for what?” Jim crossed slowly to Barker.
”The cook tent was started half an hour late, and the side show top ain't loaded yet.”
”Your wagons is on the b.u.m, that's what! Number thirty-eight carries the cook tent and the blacksmith has been tinkering with it all day. Ask HIM what shape it's in.”
”You're always stallin',” was Barker's sullen complaint. ”It's the wagons, or the black-smiths, or anything but the truth. _I_ know what's the matter, all right.”
”What do you mean by that?” asked Jim, sharply.
”I mean that all your time's took up a-carryin' and a-fetchin' for that girl what calls you 'Muvver Jim.'”
”What have yer got to say about her?” Jim eyed him with a threatening look.
”I got a-plenty,” said Barker, as he turned to snap his whip at the small boys who had stolen into the back lot to peek under the rear edge of the ”big top.” ”She's been about as much good as a sick cat since she come back. You saw her act last night.”
”Yes,” answered Jim, doggedly.
”Wasn't it punk? She didn't show at ALL this afternoon--said she was sick. And me with all them people inside what knowed her, waitin' ter see 'er.”
”Give her a little time,” Jim pleaded. ”She ain't rode for a year.”
”Time!” shouted Barker. ”How much does she want? She's been back a month and instead o' bracin' up, she's a-gettin' worse. There's only one thing for me to do.”
”What's that?” asked Jim, uneasily.
”I'm goin' ter call her, and call her hard.”
”Look here, Barker,” and Jim squared his shoulders as he looked steadily at the other man; ”you're boss here, and I takes orders from you, but if I catches you abusin' Poll, your bein' boss won't make no difference.”