Part 24 (1/2)
”Handsome as a Greek----” Carl commented. ”I look like a Minnesota Norwegian, and that ain't so bad, but handsome----Urrrrrg!... Sure they love me, all right. Hear 'em yell. Oh, they love me like a dog does a bone.... Saint Jemima! talk about football rooting.... Come on, Greek G.o.d, buck up.”
He glanced wearily about the tent, its flooring of long, dry gra.s.s stained with ugly dark-blue lubricating-oil, under the tan light coming through the canvas. His manager was sitting on a suit-case, pretending to read a newspaper, but pinching his lower lip and consulting his watch, jogging his foot ceaselessly. Their temporary mechanic, who had given up trying to repair the lame valve, squatted with bent head, biting his lip, harkening to the blood-hungry mob.
Carl's own nerves grew tauter and tauter as he saw the manager's restless foot and the mechanic's tension. He strolled to the monoplane, his back to the tent-opening.
He started as the manager exclaimed: ”Here they come! After us!”
Outside the tent a sound of running.
The secretary of the fair, a German hardware-dealer with an automobile-cap like a yachting-cap, panted in, gasping: ”Come quick!
They won't wait any longer! I been trying to calm 'em down, but they say you got to fly. They're breaking over the barriers into the track.
The p'lice can't keep 'em back.”
Behind the secretary came the chairman of the entertainment committee, a popular dairyman, who was pale as he demanded: ”You got to play ball, Mr. Ericson. I won't guarantee what 'll happen if you don't play ball, Mr. Ericson. You got to make him fly, Mr. George. The crowd 's breaking----”
Behind him charged a black press of people. They packed before the tent, trying to peer in through the half-closed tent-opening, like a crowd about a house where a policeman is making an arrest. Furiously:
”Where's the coward? Fake! Bring 'im out! Why don't he fly? He's a fake! His flying-machine's never been off the ground! He's a four-flusher! Run 'im out of town! Fake! Fake! Fake!”
The secretary and chairman stuck out deprecatory heads and coaxed the mob. Carl's manager was an old circus-man. He had removed his collar, tie, and flashy diamond pin, and was diligently wrapping the thong of a black-jack about his wrist. Their mechanic was crawling under the side of the tent. Carl caught him by the seat of his overalls and jerked him back.
As Carl turned to face the tent door again the manager ranged up beside him, trying to conceal the black-jack in his hand, and casually murmuring, ”Scared, Hawk?”
”Nope. Too mad to be scared.”
The tent-flap was pulled back. Tossing hands came through. The secretary and chairman were brushed aside. The mob-leader, a red-faced, loud-voiced town sport, very drunk, shouted, ”Come out and fly or we'll tar and feather you!”
”Yuh, come on, you fake, you four-flusher!” echoed the voices.
The secretary and chairman were edging back into the tent, beside Carl's cowering mechanic.
Something broke in Carl's hold on himself. With his arm drawn back, his fist aimed at the point of the mob-leader's jaw, he snarled: ”You can't make me fly. You stick that ugly mug of yours any farther in and I'll bust it. I'll fly when the wind goes down----You would, would you?”
As the mob-leader started to advance, Carl jabbed at him. It was not a very good jab. But the leader stopped. The manager, black-jack in hand, caught Carl's arm, and ordered: ”Don't start anything! They can lick us. Just look ready. Don't say anything. We'll hold 'em till the cops come. But nix on the punch.”
”Right, Cap'n,” said Carl.
It was a strain to stand motionless, facing the crowd, not answering their taunts, but he held himself in, and in two minutes the yell came: ”Cheese it! The cops!” The mob unwillingly swayed back as Onamwaska's heroic little band of five policemen wriggled through it, requesting their neighbors to desist.... They entered the tent and, after accepting cigars from Carl's manager, coldly told him that Carl was a fake, and lucky to escape; that Carl would better ”jump right out and fly if he knew what was good for him.” Also, they nearly arrested the manager for possessing a black-jack, and warned him that he'd better not a.s.sault any of the peaceable citizens of beautiful Onamwaska....
When they had coaxed the mob behind the barriers, by announcing that Ericson would now go up, Carl swore: ”I won't move! They can't make me!”
The secretary of the fair, who had regained most of his courage, spoke up, pertly, ”Then you better return the five hundred advance, pretty quick sudden, or I'll get an attachment on your fake flying-machine!”
”You go----Nix, nix, Hawk, don't hit him; he ain't worth it. You go to h.e.l.l, brother,” said the manager, mechanically. But he took Carl aside, and groaned: ”Gos.h.!.+ we got to do something! It's worth two thousand dollars to us, you know. Besides, we haven't got enough cash in our jeans to get out of town, and we'll miss the big Riverport purse.... Still, suit yourself, old man. Maybe I can get some money by wiring to Chicago.”
”Oh, let's get it over!” Carl sighed. ”I'd love to disappoint Onamwaska. We'll make fifteen thousand dollars this month and next, anyway, and we can afford to spit 'em in the eye. But I don't want to leave you in a hole.... Here you, mechanic, open up that tent-flap.
All the way across.... No, not like _that_, you b.o.o.b!... So.... Come on, now, help me push out the machine. Here you, Mr. Secretary, hustle me a couple of men to hold her tail.”