The Popular Magazine/Volume 25/Number 6/The Rajah's Vacation

by Harold MacGrath

 

The Rajah's Vacation

By Harold MacGrath

Author of “The Carpet from Bagdad,” “Half a Rogue,” Etc.

A short story by the author of several of the “best sellers” among recent novels. A funny story, cleverly written and most ingenious, of a young newspaper man with an elephant on his hands, a real live elephant, the chief attraction of a traveling circus, attached for the non-payment of a debt.

(A Novelette)

Hennessy was thin and fibrous; he was also red-headed, and freckled, and dynamic. He was an orphan, and wasn't afraid of anything or anybody, if one excepted his landlady, who chanced to be as red-headed as he was and far more vigorously built. He was, besides, one of the best authorities on sports in the State. He could tell you offhand anything you wanted to know, from prize fighters to champion ping-pong players. At the time of this veracious chronicle he was the sporting editor of the Evening Herald, and reveled in the fact that he had interviewed John L. before Corbett had knocked him out.

It is proverbial that sporting editors shall be improvident. Thus Hennessy was always in debt, always looking around to add a few dollars to his pay envelope. Once he had gone so far as to edit a book of poems by a local poetess. With the check he had purchased a diamond stickpin, and up to the Rajah's advent had reclaimed it from one Moses Cohen one hundred and thirty-six times. There were lean months when it represented both his capital and income.

Early on the day of the fifteenth of May—never mind the year—he sat before his typewriter. He was grouchy, for the aforesaid landlady had issued an ultimatum that morning, between prunes and ham and eggs, and had plainly indicated that his room was better than his company, eight dollars the week better. In the parlance of the office boy, who admired Hennessy next to the star pitcher, he was having a “stiff go” with the machine. He jabbed viciously, uppercut, swung right and left, and had the typewriter “going,” when the bell rang.

Hennessy took advantage of the intermission to refill his corncob pipe, and then began round two. Any one standing behind him could have traced the words “punk” and “piffle' and sundry other inelegancies of the English language which pass muster on the sporting page, but nowhere else. He was retorting to the persiflage of the sporting editor of the Morning Standard. They never agreed. They warred upon each other's decisions with a vindictiveness which, in earlier times, would have had its climax in the death of one or the other, but which, in these unromantic days, resulted in nothing more serious than a complimentary drink at Schmidt's, over the way, when work was done.

Hennessy was taking exception, violent and abusive, to Morris' decision in regard to the “scrap” between two local lightweights at the Elks' Club the night before. Morris had given the decision to “Kid” Dorgan, while his rival was determined that justice should be done to K. O. Henkel. Not because he really believed Henkel won, but to give the “rag,” as the phrase goes, to the betting cliques. As referees were—and still are—utilized only to separate the fighters when they threatened to fall asleep on one another's shoulders and “to count ten,” betters had to depend upon the newspapers. And a fine time they had settling their monetary arguments.

“Hello, Hen!”

“That you, Morris?” Hennessy looked up at the clock. He had moved his desk so that he could always see the clock without having to turn his head around. “You had a fine hunch last night. How much did you get for giving that boob the decision?”

“Aw, you know Dorgan won by a mile. Come on over to Schmidt's. I've got a bit of cheerful for you.”

“In ten minutes.”

Morris glanced over the files of newspapers while Hennessy finished his story and devoted the remaining minutes to scissors and paste pot. He folded his “copy” once and carried it over to the city editor's desk.

“How about that tennis tournament?” asked the city editor.

“Rained last night. Nothing doing until to-morrow.”

“Well, I don't suppose I'll lay eyes on you again to-day. But if you don't bring in that bowling match at eight by the clock you're always looking at, a. m., I'll fire you. There's no use paying you twenty per and letting Morris there do all your work.”

“Piffle!”

“Thats right,” said Morris. “I ought to be drawing your pay, Hen. Come on.”

The two young men, deadly enemies in public life, but Damon and Pythias in private, passed out of the building and crossed the street to Schmidt's. Schmidt owned what he called “The Press Café.” He edited choice hops, and rye, and barley, and American grape, and loaned half of his profits to the improvident reporters who frequented his bar. His “business men's lunch” was the only thing that kept him from becoming a county charge.

“Two, and no collars,” ordered Hennessy.

“And a couple of Pessimist cigars,” added Morris generously.

“Now, what's your grand news?”

“Remember Hobart?”

“Sure. He was a kind of four-flusher, who did drama and books on your sheet, some years ago. Got a job last year, I understand, as press agent for the Rigtop One-ringed Circus. What's he want us to do—lend him money?”

“No. He broke his leg day before yesterday, and he has offered me fifty to do the press work for this town and see about the lot. And distribute free tickets to the boys and the city fathers.” Morris beamed.

“Fifty dollars!” murmured Hennessy. “That's a lot of money for a bum sporting editor to make. What do you want to break the news to me for? Grudge?”

“Bum, eh? If I was in your class I'd hire out to teach parrots. You never wrote anything in your life that I didn't write the night before. Forget it. It's like this: I'm in wrong with the old codger who owns the only available lot. If I go to him, he's likely to soak me; and two-fifty is all the circus will stand. Now, I'll be decent, and give you twenty-five to make the deal with him, and I'll handle all the hard work, as usual.”

“What could I do with a measly twenty-five?”

“You could square up with your landlady. Say, I'd like to see you two bricktops do a ten-round 'go.' It would be worth watching.”

Hennessy frowned and fumbled with his collar. “Moses has my pin this month. Got twelve until Monday?”

“Twelve! You're an hour slow. Make it one. Why, Hen, I haven't the price of a shine.”

“What do you do with your salary? You never have any money,” aggrieved.

“I have a family to take care of.”

Hennessy's beer went down the wrong way. “Whose?” he sputtered.

“My landlady's. Oh, it's the old yarn. I've been exercising the ponies.”

“They never got a bone out of me. No blackboards for mine.”

“I notice you're always trying to fill in a four-flush.”

“I filled last week.”

“I heard about that. Bentley caught his full house.”

Hennessy tacked. “Got any contract from Hobart?”

“His letter.”

“Let me see it.” Hennessy read it carefully. He had had some experience with fighters' agreements, and thought he knew something about contracts. “Don't see Rigtop here anywhere. Better telegraph him and find out if he backs Hobart in this deal.”

“Good idea.”

“You can get a reply by three this afternoon, and I'll hike out to old man Warren and lease the lot. Two-fifty is the limit. All right. Twenty-five will pay for my vacation. Huh? Oh, charge it, Schmidt.”

“Chee, how easy you fellers say dot! Charche it! Vy nod say forged it?”

“Aw, Schmidt!” said the two newspaper men in chorus.

“Some tay, ven somepody ties und leafs you money, I ged mine. It's a tough pusiness to haf cheniuses hanging arount a saloon. Ven you fellers come in, nopody hears der cash rechister make any music.” Schmidt returned to the bar.

“Peeved, eh?” was Hennessy's comment.

“He's all right. He's only working himself up to ask some cub to settle his account. See you at the game this afternoon. So long.”

Alone Hennessy fished out an envelope—which contained the bill for his winter suit—and began to do some figuring on the back. Twenty-five would hold off his landlady and take him up to Lake Ontario for the opening of the bass season. He knew a hotel where he could get board and boat and bait for twelve per. With the remains of the twenty-five and his two weeks' pay he could live like a prince. The circus would arrive the tenth of June. Next week he would pay the landlady something on account and let the tailor whistle. Tailors and undertakers always had to wait.

A few days later “the greatest one-ringed circus in the world” awoke the interest of the small boy. Posters and “three-sheets” and cotton banners began to appear on barns and fences. Dozens of beauteous ladies could be seen flying from trapeze to trapeze, five or six hundred feet above the ring, which was as large as the town reservoir, and some were leaping through paper hoops from the backs of wild dray horses; and strong men held up incredible weights; and there were fierce lions, and tigers, and gorillas, and toothsome hippopotamuses, and crocodiles, and boa constrictors, all cavorting in the loveliest jungle.

But standing aloof from all this bewildering scenery was a “single-sheet,” portraying “the most learned elephant in captivity, Rajah, the royal Udaipur mastodon, mate in size to the lamented Jumbo, but vastly his superior in intelligence. Watch for the parade! June tenth!” What Udaipur meant even the erudite Hennessy never found out. It must have been a disease, or a brand, or a locality.

The days went on. Morris toiled like a beaver. He harried the local billposter until that gentleman began to mix the “three-sheets”; and no human being, even in the clutch of the most horrible nightmare, ever saw such a menagerie as bedecked some of the boardings.

Hennessy pursued the even tenor of his way, watching the clock, which not only told the hours, but the days and months as well. His vacation had been arranged. He had varnished his rods and had purchased new tackle. There was nothing now but baseball, and that was easy, for Morris was always to be relied upon for the percentages and the averages. All Hennessy had to do was to write the story of the game, which he did interestingly well. His vernacular was marvelous. He never repeated. It was as easy as falling off a log to state that “Doyle picked up a hot biscuit and browned it to the first sackerino, from whence Miller took the hammer up and nailed Morgan on the all-but bag. The umpire said he was safe. Murphy then sprained three layers of new-mown air in trying to connect with Johnson's airship to the official stand. What's the matter with making umpires wear mourning?”

Yes, Hennessy was getting along nicely. He had invented a fine tale for his landlady, which was so good that she had concluded to let him believe that she ate it, rind and all. For she wasn't a bad landlady, not by any means; only she was like the boy, swift to anger and swift to forget.

Red hair is all right. Napoleon didn't have any, to be sure, but nine-tenths of Wellington's men wore plenty of it. Nobody knows what the color of George Washington's hair was, for in all the death scenes he died under a wig. But it has been duly recorded that he had freckles.

So, but for his fiery top, Hennessy would never have stepped upon a pedestal in the local hall of fame. True, he wasn't always to remain there, but it was something to have climbed that far. Seventy-five years hence his name will be bandied to and fro by the oldest inhabitants, whenever a circus comes to town. When they die, oblivion. See any old poet on the longevity of fame.

II.

On the evening of the ninth of June Hennessy and Morris foregathered at Schmidt's for a game of pinochle. The former had nothing to do except to secure a copy of Professor Meyerbeer's lecture on “The Life of Prehistoric Granite,” while Morris intended to witness “The Wife”—as given by the local stock company—from the program only. In fact, he had already written his criticism, and the office boy was carrying it around in his pocket until eleven o'clock should arrive.

In a provincial city, such as I write about, the sporting editor had other dignities thrust upon him. There were nights and days when nothing happened in the sporting world, and, in order to keep him from growing rusty, the city editor would give him general assignments, such as church fairs, weddings, fires, interviews with persons of importance who stopped the night at the best hotel, and Sunday sermons.

The sporting editor would accept these assignments without feeling any great loss of prestige; he was still the idol of the office boy; he was still the man who could go up to the ex-champion—when he came to town with a show—and ask him what he thought of “Lanky Bob's” chances with the “Boilerman.” No newspaper man lives who, at one time or another, hasn't wanted to be a sporting editor; unless, indeed, he was cut out for the ignoble job of writing book reviews.

The boys sat down at their usual table and started the game. There was a deadly side bet attached to-night. It was to settle the question as to who should collect the fifty from Mr. Rigtop. At eleven Morris laid down a “hundred aces,” and the game was done. In other words, the ticklish job of corralling Mr. Rigtop and extracting fifty dollars from his funereal frock coat was left to Hennessy.

“I guess that'll hold you, Hen. If you hadn't been in such a hurry to 'meld' those sixty queens, you'd have won out on double pinochle.”

“That was Schmidt. He was jawing over my shoulder,” said the disgruntled Hennessy.

“Vy, I vanted you to vin,” asserted the abused Schmidt. “Putt you blay pinochle like a pullhead.”

“Whats Rigtop look like?” asked Hennessy.

“Search me,” answered Morris. “Hobart'll have to point him out to us. He wrote he'd be in here at nine to-morrow.”

“Supposing he balks?”

“How can he? I've got Hobart's letter and Rigtop's telegram: Nothing more is needed.”

“You made the contract with the billposter?”

“Nix. The telegram was enough for him. He went ahead on that.”

“I guess that fifty looks good,” sighed Hennessy. “Say, how do you ask a man for fifty dollars?”

“Quit kidding. Here, Schmidt,” said Morris, reaching into a pocket; “here are four complimentaries for the circus to-morrow night. Take the frau and the whatchamucallits.”

“Dot's fine! Vot'll you poys haf?”

If Morris had paid cash for the tickets and had emphasized the fact, Schmidt would have accepted them without comment. But there was something irresistibly magical in the word “complimentary.” Somehow, it made him feel that he was intimately acquainted with Mr. Rigtop, and that he was lifted out of the common rut. Anybody could buy a ticket, but only a chosen few—about three hundred—were accorded the compliments of the showman. Schmidt added the name Rigtop to his vocabulary, and used it for months.

Promptly at nine the next morning Hennessy and. his friend met Hobart. He carried a crutch, and the boys agreed that he looked rather seedy.

“Morris,” he began, “I'll introduce you to Mr. Rigtop this afternoon. Get a voucher from him and hand it into the ticket-wagon window after the crowd gets in.”

“You're lookin' kind of punk,” said Morris.

“And punk's the word.” Hobart glanced around cautiously. “The truth is, we're up against it stone-hard. If it wasn't for our private train we couldn't move. Sheriffs are getting interested in our route.”

Morris grew pale, while Hennessy bit off the wrong end of his cigar.

“Our fifty doesn't look good, eh?”

“Honestly, it doesn't.”

Hennessy eyed his perfecto, a real Havana. Sadly he replaced it in his vest pocket. This was not the occasion, after all.

Hobart eased his leg. “I'm putting you fellows wise because we used to work together. If Rigtop refuses to pay, hike back to town as soon as you can and fix up paper for levying on the Rajah, the only thing in the show worth looking at. That's all I can say. I'll see you at the big top at two. It's up to you chaps to get your money.”

“How about the billposter?”

“Same boat for him, too.” And the ex-newspaper man hobbled out.

“Ain't it fierce?” breathed Morris hoarsely.

“Fierce? Morris, I'll get the hook into this Rigtop person if it's the last thing I ever do. We'll attach the elephant.”

“Hobson will stretch a point for us, after all we've done for him. We'll have the papers ready in case Rigtop renegs.”

“He'll have to wake up milkman time to put this over on us. Let's get a move on.” Hennessy was boiling with wrath,

At half after two they were introduced to Mr. Rigtop. Hobart, after the introduction, disappeared. Mr. Rigtop was very glad to see any of the newspaper boys. What? A telegram from him offering fifty for press work? Some mistake. His man Hobart had charge of that end of the business.

“I guess you'd better pay it, Mr. Rigtop,” said Hennessy, the hair stirring at the base of his neck. “We've worked like nailers to boost this show, hired the lot and seen to the billposting.”

“Let me see that telegram.”

“'No's' the word,” replied Morris. “You'd probably say that the signature was a forgery. We want fifty dollars, peacefully if possible.”

“What! You threaten?” Mr. Rigtop looked around for his “Hey Rubes.” “I tell you that I sent no telegram. I'll fire Hobart for this. If you two chaps took charge of the billing, you did it on your own. No blackmail for mine.” And with a flourish of his arm Mr. Rigtop entered the ticket wagon and slammed the door.

“The sneaking hound!” cried Hennessy, giving the door a kick.

“All right, Rigtop!” shouted Morris. “Come on, Hen. We'll show this duffer that there are some live ones in this town yet.”

They boarded the trolley and rode back to town. Morris was strongly in favor of Nero, the lion, but Hennessy held out for the Rajah.

“I tell you, the elephant's the whole show, or Hobart wouldn't have tipped us off. We'll get Hobson to body-snatch the Rajah to-night. We can get fifty for his feet as umbrella stands any day in the week.”

“All right. We'll attach the elephant. Rigtop'll come across when he sees his whole show walking off. The elephant for ours.”

Which was the very thing Mr. Rigtop prayed and hoped for.

Hobson, the sheriff, in view of past favors, agreed to levy on the elephant until the affair could be settled in court. So, at eight that night, the three of them went out to the grounds and started a still hunt for the showman. They found him as he intended they should. The demand for fifty dollars was made again, and refused. Then the sheriff informed Mr. Rigtop that he would immediately attach the Rajah.

“We'll take your elephant!” bawled Hennessy, for the band was banging out a ragtime and he could hardly hear his own voice.

“The Rajah?” dismayed. “Why, gentlemen, you'll ruin my show.”

“Fifty dollars!” cried Morris.

“I refuse to be blackmailed,” returned the showman angrily. “If you take that elephant out of the tent you'll have the hottest time you ever ran up against.” Mr. Rigtop reëntered the ticket wagon.

So far as he was concerned, the matter was closed. All the sheriffs could come if they wanted to. The only thing in the animal tent he could call his own was the llama, and nobody wanted the beast because it had the habit of puffing its food into the faces of the spectators.

Once out of this State he could get on his legs again. He did not worry about the Rajah. Indeed, he began to whistle a popular air from “Wang.” He knew more about elephants than a thousand and one sheriffs. It had rained for weeks, and he was broke. It did not hurt his conscience—tough as a rhino's hide—that two improvident newspaper men would be held responsible for the lot and the billposting.

Said Hobson as they entered the animal tent: “Kinda seems too easy. He didn't make no great hullabaloo 's I suspected he would. Maybe th' elephant is dyin' or sick.”

“He's all right. Old, maybe; but he was spry enough in the parade this morning. We may have some trouble,” Hennessy added.

“Not with me,” said Hobson, pulling his Colt. “I've seen circuses before.” Then he lamented: “Wish I'd seen th' show this afternoon. We'll have a chat with that Mohammydin—what d'y' call him—mayhoot? If we get an elephant on our hands we want t' know how t' feed him.”

“There's truth in that,” assented Morris. “Come along.”

They found the Mohammedan mahout. He was taking off a bright red harness studded with brass nails. They introduced themselves and made known their business.

“My name is Cassidy,” returned the mahout. He knew what was in the wind. “So ye're after the Rajah? Poor sowl! Well, well, so it's come at last? Ye'll be kind t' him till we kin sind fer him?”

“We'll get him a high chair and a fine nursing bottle,” Hennessy agreed, in fine feather. Wouldn't the town sit up and take notice? His glance ran over the Rajah. So close he looked fifty feet high and two million pounds, for he was a big elephant, as elephants go. Came a day when these were trifling figures.

“An' don't lave him out av doors at night. He ketches cowld aisy. The show business has a har-rd world t' face. It's a wonder ye didn't levy on the side shows. They's more money in thim.”

“The Rajah's our meal ticket.”

“Aye, he will be.” Cassidy patted the huge trunk. “Salaam, ye infant!” The Rajah curled up his trunk and made a noise like a rusty hinge in the wind.

“Can't you get any bigger noise out of him than that?” asked Hennessy, touching the elephant gingerly. Morris stood ten feet away.

“Not when he's peaceful. Whin do ye have yeer county fair?”

“In September. Why?”

“Well, if ye kape fee thot long, ye'll be makin' a wad. Eh, owld flabby sides?” poking the elephant playfully in the side with the butt end of the goad. “Ye'll be nadin' this shtick. Touch him as ye would a cavalry horse. Lift side, he goes right; an' vicey versy. Gintle as a lamb. Hes niver gone musth, They'll be the car-r at the sidin'. Ye kin put him aboord whin we sind fer him. An' ye'll want this rid harness, too. Now, mind, ye kin ride him as ye would the back shteps av a stame roller, he's thot gintle. Don't be afraid av him. A pail av wather or two in the marnin' an' the same at night. I've bin with him fer sivin years now, an' he's niver so much as shtepped on me cor-rns. Fifty dollars is a shmall sum agin' the bist iliphant thot iver ate his ton av hay; ate thousind, if a cint.”

“Is that all you feed him?” asked Hennessy. Away down in his soul somewhere he was worried. This was going to be a bigger job than he had calculated; but he'd die rather than back down at this late hour.

“Oh, he'll ate paynuts an' benannies an' grane stuff.” And Cassidy went on to explain the caretaking.

“Too easy, too easy,” muttered the sheriff under his breath. There was a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, but just where he couldn't fathom.

“Where do you sit on him when you get on him?” asked Hennessy.

“Behint his ears. 'Tis aisy. Any ladder'll do the job. He won't move.”

At twelve o'clock that night the Rajah was in the big box stall of the barn in the rear of the Grangers' Hotel. The mahout tenderly bade him farewell, and then hot-footed it for the train.

Three o'clock the following afternoon the local team, having won the toss, marched to the field. Hennessy and his partner, in the press stand, received the guying congratulations of the other reporters. They took it all good-naturedly. After all, they had waked up the town. Hennessy was sharpening his pencil, when Morris nudged him.

“There's' your boy.”

“Where?”

“Coming down toward us.”

When the boy espied Hennessy, he made a megaphone of his hands and bawled:

“Hey, Hennessy, your elephunt hes broke loose!”

III.

The two returned to town as soon as the trolley could take them. They saw a great crowd in Jones Street, a respectful crowd, be it added, packing the far side of the street to the curb, and leaving the thoroughfare itself free and unobstructed. In front of the Grangers' Hotel was the Rajah, fondling the contents of several ashcans and impatiently tossing aside the sardine tins. He was no goat. Three or four policemen kept—or pretended to keep—the public from getting within the danger zone. Hennessy and Morris were appalled. Nobody seemed to know what to do. The care of elephants evidently was not down on the police regulations.

“What's happened?” gasped Morris of the hotel proprietor.

“Happened?” roared that indignant person. “Why, your darned elephant simply walked out of the barn about an hour ago, carrying the box stall and the doorframe with him. Happened!”

“Maybe he was lonesome,” suggested Morris. “Did you feed him?” turning upon Hennessy.

“Feed him?” cried Hennessy. “I thought you'd given orders for the hay. The old brute is hungry.”

“I told you to take the lion,” whispered Morris.

“Shut up!” hissed Hennessy. He was Irish and possessed a fertile imagination. “You run around to the wagon maker and get some chains and a stout post, and bring him along, too.”

Morris rushed off, grasping the idea. Chains, anything to hold the elephant. On his part, Hennessy ran back to the barn, or what was left of it, and secured the goad, returning breathless and hatless. Which end should he use first? Should he be conciliatory or peremptory? The elephant now looked as high as the hotel. When this was all over he would tell Morris just what he thought of him. He was to blame for all this muddle. Fifty dollars! Both of them would remain in debt for the rest of their lives. They couldn't sell the elephant, they couldn't rent him; he was simply an attachment, a legal proceeding by which they protected their fifty dollars. And they might have to keep him until Rigtop died, which Hennessy hoped would be on the morrow.

He paused about ten feet east of the Rajah's port. His coarse red hair shone fiery in the sunshine. Silence fell upon the spectators. The little murmurings died away. They waited expectantly for the tragedy to begin. Here was going to be something they could hand down to their descendants, along with the antique furniture, the wax flowers, and the family albums.

The Rajah eyed that red head. It was the only familiar thing he had seen since yesterday; for Cassidy had a red top also. Next, the Rajah espied the goad. He waggled his frayed ears. Red-headed Irishmen with goads were bad propositions. Nevertheless, he was hungry and thirsty. He lifted a hind leg. The young man with the goad did not stir or speak. The Rajah lifted his fore leg. Still the young man made no move. The elephant was puzzled. He began to sway irresolutely. Then an idea entered his pachydermous-bound skull. He rolled up his trunk and let out that hingelike noise.

Then Hennessy did a truly brave thing. He knew that he was going to his death. He vaguely wondered whether the elephant would throw him over the post office, a block away, or trample him. The fact that there were a thousand pairs of eyes upon him screwed up his courage to the Homeric point. He murmured a long-forgotten prayer, stepped briskly forward, and poked the Rajah amidship. The Rajah wheeled and shuffled toward the alley-way out of which he had come. Hennessy, laughing hysterically, followed with a good batting average on the hindquarters of the Rajah. The vox populi rang wildly up and down Jones Street.

Morris, followed by the wagon maker, both staggering under a load of chains, any one of which would have tethered a drove of wild elephants, let alone a peaceful one, hove around the corner. Such are the moods of fickle fame. He had arrived too late. The hero of the hour was one Hennessy, sporting editor and mahout, pro tem.

“Hay!” shouted Hennessy.

The Rajah had gone directly into what remained of the box stall.

Somebody dashed up to the loft and dropped down a pressed bale. Hennessy broke the wires with his goad. The Rajah reached for a mouthful.

“He's eating!'” cried Morris, waving his hands toward the crowd, which gradually dissolved, now that the Neronic possibilities were vanished from the scene.

“Aw, he's all right,” said Hennessy. “The beggar was hungry, that was all. If you'd have given him his hay this morning, all this fuss would not have happened.” He patted the Rajah's starboard side. “Salaam!” he bawled out, with sudden recollection. Up went the trunk, still curled about some hay, and out came the incredible squeak.

Morris wiped the perspiration from his brow and backed away.

“Drive the stake there,” commanded Hennessy, pointing to a spot of earth.

The wagon maker obeyed energetically. He was greatly desirous of returning to his shop. He felt it in his bones that customers were just filling the doors, calling for axles and hubs and spokes.

“Now, put that chain around it so it won't come off.”

It was done.

“And help me to tie it around his leg.”

“Not me,” said the wagon maker.

“What are you afraid of?” jeered Hennessy. “You, Morris, anyhow. I'm danged if I'll do all the work myself.”

Morris had always been bragging about his revolutionary ancestors; but he hesitated.

“Huh!” said Hennessy. “I bet your great-grandfather was a sutler. Get a gait on you.”

After a quarter of an hour's labor the two succeeded in adjusting the chain; and for the present the Rajah was safe. True, he might take the whole barn with him the next time; but that was on the knees of the gods.

On returning to the office, Hennessy applied for his two weeks' vacation. He felt that he was going to need fourteen days right away.

Morris wrote a great story for the Morning Standard, which was wired to the press association. From Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon, Hennessy's deed became known. Morris made his friend one of the heroes of modern times; but he could not resist a joke or two, which Hennessy, from his lofty pinnacle, declined to notice. He bought the Mirror and the Clipper, and hunted “dates ahead.” The Rigtop was “billed” for Erie on the eighteenth. Hennessy wrote a letter, stating that he would keep the elephant exactly fourteen days. If, after that time, the fifty was not forthcoming, he would immediately procure authority to sell the elephant to the first man who wanted one. This was final. There was no reply.

Every morning for a week Hennessy went over and visited the Rajah. He gave him bananas and peanuts, and the great beast, while he mourned the absence of his keeper, took a fancy to the slim young man who could say nothing more intelligent than “Salaam!” But he knew, deep down in his big heart, that there was a bond between him and the blue-eyed, red-headed young fellow, the bond of loneliness. On the third day Hennessy unchained him and exercised him up and down the alleyway. The Rajah obeyed every move of the goad. He recognized two other things besides the loneliness—that his new master was kind and unafraid. Moreover, he had not had so much hay in all his circus days. He “whuffed” along the dust. His first vacation in forty-four years. Of course, he missed the music and the routine; but what were these compared to the present peace and quiet?

The Rajah was not jungle-born. He had come into this world of sin and care in the Antwerp Gardens, and from the time they had hoisted him aboard the big freighter until now he had had no rest. Sometimes, in the hot afternoons, when the band in the big top had stopped, he had dreamed, and in these dreams he had seen great reaches of rolling land, covered with vast forests, stretches of desert and blinding sand, wonderful birds, screaming monkeys, sleek tigers—unlike those in the cages—and shallow streams wherein his brothers and sisters lolled all the day. Then, into the heart of these pleasant dreams would come that abominable harness and the disgraceful exhibitions, such as standing on his hind legs on barrels, ringing a bell, sitting at a table, and pretending to drink from a battered bottle made of wood. Whuff!

The whole town was on the “who lives,” as the French say. The circulation of the morning paper had increased, for everybody arose in hopes of learning that the tragedy had taken place. The new left-handed pitcher had arrived without creating more than a flutter among the fanatics. The temperance agitation didn't agitate. On Saturday Hennessy boldly paraded the elephant around the post office, and came near being arrested for not having a circus license. On the eighth day, so far as the public was concerned, the interest began to wane. The Rajah up to date hadn't killed anything but time.

Hennessy used to drop into the office about noon. The boys had ceased to whistle:

When the band, begins to play
And the elephant goes around!

The pastime threatened to prove unhealthy. For Hennessy had promised to “knock the block off the first man who whistles that tune again.” He was sitting at his desk, idly musing, when the proprietor of the Granger Hotel entered and laid down a sheet of paper, upon which was neatly written:

To hay for one elephant at $20 the the ton...... $40
Carpenters and lumber, repairs........ 32

$72

“What's this?” demanded Hennessy, laying down his pipe.

“Can't you read?” countered the proprietor.

“Send it to Rigtop. The Rajah isn't my elephant.”

“But I guess you'll pay this bill, though. The elephant's yours until Rigtop sends for him. Seventy-two dollars to-morrow night, or no more hay.”

“But I may get a draft from Rigtop any day now. I guess you can hold your horses until I get my end. Besides, there's Morris. He's in on this for half.”

“Where'll I find him, then?”

“Oh, about two, in the editorial room of the Morning Standard.”

But Morris had gone directly to the ball grounds upon leaving his hall bedroom. The proprietor of the Granger Hotel found Hennessy at Schmidt's later.

“I'm going to give you twenty-four hours to settle. If you don't, out goes that elephant.”

“All right. Put him out. Fine job. Look here; be a sport. You don't pay your bills but once a month. Why do you jump on me?”

“Well, I don't want that brute in the barn. He frightens the horses; and guests can hear the chains rattling all night. I'll tell you what I'll do. Take him somewhere else and I'll split the bill in half.”

“I'll make a stab at it,” Hennessy agreed.

But a large and resonant negative met him in the other fourteen wards of the city. And no mail from Rigtop. It began to look serious. Morris and Hennessy practically “roomed” at Schmidt's trying to figure out where they stood.

“Vy don't you raffle him?” suggested the saloon keeper.

“No joshing, Schmidt,” growled Hennessy, rubbing the callouses on his palms. Carrying water twice a day for the Rajah was no sinecure.

“Vell, you haf an elephant on your hants alreaty, und you vant to ged rit uff him. Vy don't you?”

Hennessy ignored him. “And there's that old skinflint Warren; he's after me now. But he can go hang. He got his voucher from Rigtop, and it's not my fault if the ticket wagon had disappeared when he got around to it.”

“Let him holler.”

Castle, the billposter, came in, flushed and out of breath. He made for Morris.

“Say, looky here. Where's that dub Rigtop? I've sent me bill to him five times and not a rise. He told me that he'd send a money order from Erie. Three hundred dollars.”

Morris and Hennessy gazed sadly at each other. It was a hard world.

“Do you mean to tell us that you let him put you off?” demanded Hennessy. “You've handled circuses for ten years, and ought to know that you get your cash before they take down the tent, or you don't get it.”

“You're the dub that made me so easy,” volleyed the billposter, shaking his finger at Morris. “I took your word for it that I'd get my pay.”

“Say, sit down,” urged Hennessy. “Three, Schmidt.”

Schmidt brought three very small ones. Hennessy eyed him savagely, but said nothing.

“Let's get together on the thing. Morris here and I were promised fifty to see that you did your work well, feed the deadheads, and lease the lot. Rigtop has shied the whole shooting match.”

“I told you to attach the lion,” said Morris sadly.

“You wall-eyed pike! What! A lion on our hands and sirloins at thirty-four the pound?”

“You wouldn't have had to feed him sirloins.”

“No; but as soon as the butchers saw how we were fixed, meat bones would go kiooting. Be joyful; cheer up. Hay is steady at twenty the ton. Now, listen. The bill for hay is forty. Perhaps we give him too much. I don't know. Anyhow, it keeps him quiet. The damage to the barn is thirty-two. Fifty and three hundred and seventy-two make four hundred and twenty-two dollars. The Rajah's got to dig that up for us.”

“Lord's name, and how?” asked Castle.

“I don't know; but something's got to be done. I don't like this business. There is something shady about it. That four-flusher Hobart was surely in on it. It was he who steered us into the elephant. Hobson says it was all too easy. And, on top of all this, the district attorney is hunting up the law to see if the city can't get something out of the Rajah's hide. He claims we ought to pay a license fee of some kind. And the chief of police has warned me that if any one gets hurt I'll be held responsible. That's because I'm taking care of him. What can we do? My lawyer says I can't sell the elephant without hearing from Rigtop first.”

“Three hundred!” wailed Castle, for there would not be any more fat contracts until the regular theatrical season opened in the fall.

“I've got it!” cried Hennessy, banging the table with his fist. “We'll use old rubber sides for advertising purposes.”

“How?”

“Listen.”

IV.

The manager of the Imperial Drygoods Store listened attentively. He had heard all about the elephant.

“Not half bad, Mr. Hennessy; but a hundred a day is pretty stiff.”

“All right,” said Hennesy, getting up. “If you can't recognize a good thing when it's passed up to you, that's your affair. Why, the free advertising you'll get out of it is worth a hundred alone. The whole State has heard about it. One hundred or nothing.”

“Wait just a moment until I call up Mr. Hann.” The manager caught up the telephone and talked lowly for a minute. He turned with a smile. “Very well, Mr. Hennessy. We engage to pay you one hundred for the Rajah to-morrow. We'll have the side banners painted at once. You agree to lead the elephant up and down Main Street, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, the hundred to be paid at five o'clock.”

“There's the contract. If the Rajah kicks, you can. I'm taking that chance.”

From the Imperial he started over to the Sheehan-Cort Company. He met Morris coming out, beaming.

“Got a bully contract from them; two-fifty for Friday, day after to-morrow.”

“But I only said a hundred,” was Hennessy's protest. “We can't charge one price to the Imperial and another to the Sheehan people.”

“Yes; but this is an extra contract. Cort——

“Oh, yes; I know Cort. Some snide game. He's got it in for me. I guyed him in the paper the time his auto broke down between town and the country club, and he and his chorus girls had to walk in. What did you agree to?”

“Two-fifty if you'd ride the elephant from Jones' up to the canal.”

“You blamed jackass!” exploded Hennessy.

“Well, what are you afraid of? You've been bragging about what you could do. Do it.” Morris was crafty.

The Irish blood in Hennessy began to mount. “All right, you fish. I'll ride him if it breaks my neck. But when we're squared up, you see a lot of your share of the cash.”

“I'm only looking out for our interests.”

“And I'm looking out for my neck.”

They walked along the street, arguing, with a crowd of newsboys at their heels. They were almost as popular as a pair of prize fighters. By the time the two had reached the barn Hennessy had forgiven. He went into the stall, and the Rajah “salaamed,” lifted his hind leg and fore leg, and was as amiable as could be.

“I don't see how you do it, Hen,” said Morris, in frank admiration.

“I guess I can ride him.”

“Telephone call for you, Mr. Hennessy,” said the bell boy, coming into the barn.

It was from the chief of the police.

“This you, Hennessy?”

“Yep.”

“What's this I hear about you riding that elephant up and down Main?”

“Has Cort been phoning you?”

“Never mind how I found out.”

Hennessy put his hand over the phone and turned to Morris. “Cort has told the chief, thinking he'd stop the thing, so he could break the contract. I'll fool him.” Into the phone he said: “Aw, chief, there isn't any danger. He's as gentle as a lamb. Children used to ride him as they did Jumbo. He minds me as if I'd always been his trainer. Don't queer us, chief. We're only trying to break even.”

“Forget it. Supposin' he runs amuck, as they say?”

“He's got rheumatism,” lied Hennesy, “and can't run.”

“I'll tell you what. To-night at seven I'll drop over. If you can ride him up and down the alleyway without killing any one, I'll let you go ahead.”

“That's fair enough. Be here prompt at seven, then.” Hennessy hung up the telephone and mused. He was like a bather. The water was cold. Should he take a plunge or not? They were closing in on him. If he backed out now, he'd have to leave town. He would never hear the last of it. But it was hard to die so young.

At seven the chief and two patrolmen stood at the entrance of the alleyway, ready to hike, should the situation warrant hiking. The alleyway was hazy with the soft dusk of summer twilight. They squinted, but could not see very well, for the Rajah was of the same weather-beaten drab as the barn. They heard a squeak and a “Hey, old-rubber sides!” And then they saw the elephant's bulk take form as it came forward, They did not recognize the white patch over the elephant's head, but they knew it to belong to Hennessy. It was his face, pale as the new moon. The Rajah passed the uneasy officials, swung to port, and went as far as the post office; then he came about, and three minutes later was securely chained for the night.

“All right,” said the chief. “But don't take any chances. From Jones Street up Main to the canal and back. How'd you get on him?”

“Ladder.”

“You can't beat the Irish,” admitted the chief, as he climbed into his buggy and drove away.

Hennessy sat down on the curb. He was glad that he was alone. His legs would no longer support him. He had actually done it; he, Hennessy, had got upon the elephant all by himself. The church steeple wasn't in it. He had died ten thousand deaths, and yet here he was, alive and actually hungry.

I repeat, this is a veracious tale. Like Æneas, I may say that I saw all of it and was of necessity part of it. As a matter of fact, I was the cub who first started to whistle:

When the band begins to play
And the elephant goes around!

I was also the first to cease firing. Hennessy is to-day a power in politics, honest and fearless, and Morris is piloting a budding prize fighter toward the goal of championship, and making more money than Hennessy and myself put together. They never mention the Rajah. As a subject it is taboo. But whenever Hennessy goes to New York—— There! I am wandering away from the tale proper.

The parade began at ten-thirty. The Rajah shuffled up Main, the huge side banners showing vividly.

THE IMPERIAL DRY-GOODS STORE
HAS NO ELEPHANT ON ITS HANDS

SPECIAL
HOUR SALES UNTIL FIVE

Hennessy, his heart full of bitter pride, marched along, touching the elephant encouragingly from time to time and passing out a banana whenever the long drab proboscis turned to the rearward. Grimly he recognized that there was one bright spot in all this; he wasn't in love. Any girl would have given him the go-by, or she would have rushed out into the street and wept upon his shoulders, which would have been far worse. One thing was certain: this punk town would know a man hereafter when they saw him. Besides, if he could work this game for a week, he'd be richer than he had ever been before. A thousand boys formed the main procession. When the Rajah tacked and reversed the order of his going, they scattered like water bugs when you drop a stone into the pool. But presently they formed and followed as far as the barn.

The proprietor of the Granger Hotel mused upon the ways of humanity. Never had his luncheons been so popular, The diners not only wanted to see the elephant at close range, but they wanted a near view of the amateur mahout who had had his picture in the New York Sunday papers.

That night Hennessy and his friend fondled the check from the Imperial. It was handsomely lithographed, and was worth exactly what it called for, one hundred dollars. Meanwhile, Castle had delivered his ultimatum. He would hold Morris liable for the three hundred, if by the first of the week he did not hear from Rigtop.

“You see how it is, Hen.”

“Yes, Morris. If the Rajah doesn't break my neck Saturday, I think we can pull out of the rut. But you hand it out to the bunch that I'm going to take no more joshing. I'm just aching for a fight.”

“All right; I'll tip 'em off when you're peevish.”

“And you tell Sheehan-Cort that Friday will have to be Saturday. The Bellevue Real-estate Company has closed for to-morrow and Friday at one-fifty a day. All I have to do is to lead the Rajah out to their dinky park and fed him hay. Chain him, you know, and make him salaam a few times. Thousand'll take the trolley out. Cash at night each day.”

“By Jingo, Hen, it looks great. If this keeps up, we'll have some real money.”

“If we can get rid of the Rajah quick enough. What's worrying me is, supposing Rigtop never sends for him?”

“We can go to law, then. Sell him to some zoo. If he's worth eight thousand, we can surely sell him for half that. Lets see. One hundred to-day, three from the Bellevue people, and two-fifty from the Sheehan-Cort—six hundred and fifty. And suppose we pay Castle; that'll leave one-seventy-five apiece.”

“It would be great, if I was sure it wasn't going to end in my funeral. These elephants are queer birds. They always kill those they love best, and I don't know but old rubber sides is beginning to take a shine to me. He salaams every time I enter the stall. Well, what's the difference?” philosophically. “There's no one to care but my landlady, and her affections are worth just three weeks' board. The hired girl put an extra prune in my dish this morning for breakfast. That's fame!”

Saturday was a memorable day. The morning paper had carried a full-page advertisement, stating that at ten o'clock “Hennessy, the mahout,” would ride the Rajah from Jones Street up Main to the Erie Canal. There would be special bargains every hour until eleven that night. The Sheehan-Cort Company never missed a chance to instruct and benefit its patrons.

A score of policemen lined Main Street. The Saturday bargaining crowd is always large in a provincial town, but on this occasion it was abnormal. The country people had come in for the markets, the schoolchildren and the unruly urchins, everybody in town who was anybody, waited and watched the clock in the savings-bank tower. “There he comes!” echoed and re-echoed. But it was eleven before “the extraordinary spectacle” hove in sight. There were cheers. Hennessy, in order to give full measure, had contrived to put on the Rajah's gaudy harness. It had taken some time and some mathematics. The Rajah was interested. This meant parade, and formerly his one happy hour was shuffling through the crowded streets, out in the sunshine.

How Hennesy got behind the Rajah's ears is history. The ladder broke. For a while the redoubtable amateur was stumped. Finally he and Morris succeeded in tying a rope from the hay-loft. Down this Hennessy slid to the broad back of the elephant.

“Gimme the goad,” said Hennessy. He shook it triumphantly, but as he did so the steel barb fell off and left in his hand nothing more dangerous than the end of a broomstick. He didn't appreciate this at the time, but the Rajah did. He was a wily old boy, and, aged as he was, was not without his pachydermous humor. Besides, he felt Hennessy's legs tremble behind his ears. Elephants are like horses. A man of courage may do as he pleases, and it is not well that the brute should sense fear in his rider. Now, Hennessy was not afraid. He was terribly nervous. The breaking of the ladder had shaken him, and he hadn't been sure of landing on the Rajah's back, via the rope. Once in the street, however, his courage was of a high order.

But if the Rajah had seemed a hundred feet high the other night he was miles high in the daylight. Hennessy recalled some pictures he had seen of the Alps. He hung somewhere between the Matterhorn and the Gornergrat. There was, however, the blood of County Antrim backing him in his exploit, and he was confident of both himself and the elephant.

The Rajah obeyed the erstwhile goad, turned into Main Street, and slowly and solemnly made headway toward the canal, which was about six hundred yards to the north. He cocked his ears up now and then, wondering why the band didn't begin. Hennessy's long legs saved him; otherwise he would have lost his balance and gone overboard. By putting his left hand back he could catch hold of the harness, and there was a sense of security in that.

The parade was a huge success as far as the Erie Canal. In the public square, which faced the canal, there stood a fountain. It was not as wide as a church door nor as deep as a well, but it was sufficient for the calamity which followed. The Rajah scented the water, and he headed for it, impervious to the whacks of the now useless goad. The Rajah arrived. So did the crowd, the police, and the ambulance, which, ghoul-like, saw a possible emergency case.

The Rajah drew in several gallons of water and washed out his mouth. Then he drew in several more gallons and squirted it along his sides. The crowd yelled delightedly. Hennessy might as well have attacked a carpet as the Rajah's skull. He rested his aching arm, and waited. Not for long. Once more the Rajah drew in water. Blash! Hennessy yelled this time, but the crowd shrieked. And again, blash! Hennessy, half strangled, laid down with his face against the elephant's raspy, warm head. One could hear the laughter for miles.

And then Hennessy had his revenge. The Rajah, as if sorry for the ridicule he had heaped upon his friend, turned his attention to the crowd. My! but there was a scattering and a tumbling to get out of range. The Rajah could throw water like a fire tower. A fat lady fainted, and the funeral directors who owned the ambulance were rewarded for their foresight. After this, the Rajah washed his feet, like the good Mohammedan he was.

And then, into the silence which had suddenly fallen upon everybody, the Rajah heard music. Somehow or other he must have missed the main parade. He swung westward, toward the sound, along the street which faced the canal. Boom-boom-boom! went a bass drum. There was also the tinkle of a tambourine and the umpaha of a jaded trombone.

Now it came to pass that the Salvation Army, realizing the possibilities of such an enormous crowd, had come out with the intent of making conversions on a magnificent scale. They had as usual taken their stand in front of a saloon. Next door, east, was Desimone's fruit and vegetable shop.

Behind the bass drum the Rajah paused. The Salvationists, who had not expected to bring an elephant around to their way of thinking, fled simultaneously and precipitately down the street toward the towpath. All save the drummer. Boom-boom-boom! He went on banging away with closed eyes. He was making so much noise that he did not notice the sudden cessation of the tambourine and the trombone. A puff of moist, hot air, such as might come from a clothes boiler on Monday, stirred the hair at the base of the drummer's neck. He looked around peevishly. That one look was enough. The quickest thing he ever did was to get rid of that drum; the second quickest thing was the air-line route he selected for the first canal bridge.

As for Hennessy, he had “put his house in order,” as the saying goes. At any moment the Rajah might throw him off. And he dared not slip off himself. So he waited.

Meanwhile the Rajah eyed the oranges and bananas and crisp lettuce. He selected carefully—after the manner of shrewd housewives—the largest and crispest bunch of lettuce and ate it with supreme relish.

Desimone shrilled: “Poleece!” He shook his fist at Hennessy. “Poleece! He steala my lettuce! Poleece! Subito, subito! Villanzone!” As this did not suffice, he appealed to all his Calabrian saints.

“Forget it!” snarled Hennessy, tossing down a ten-dollar bill, the only one he had in the world. He threw it away thus carelessly because he knew that he was never going to need ten-dollar bills any more. Having prepared to die, he had recovered his nonchalance.

Desimone waved his apron. “Va, va!”

The Rajah took up a fat beet, swung it to and fro, like a hammer thrower at a track meet, and flung it far into the canal. He was having the time of his life. He did not mean any harm; he was merely full of that mischief which besets a puppy. Next, he began to juggle the oranges. He caught hold of a leg of the stand and drew it toward him. A golden torrent flowed into the gutter. By this time the Italian was weeping. He was ruined, now and forever after. The Black Hand was back of this, somewhere.

“Hennessy,” shouted a policeman, from a safe distance, “get that brute back to the stables or I'll arrest you.”

“Arrest me? Kerry, I'll give you ten if you will. I can't do anything with the old codger. Get the hook-and-ladder and take me off.”

The Rajah ate all the lettuce in sight, and then looked for further amusement. He espied the drum. He picked it up, and of his own accord wheeled and shuffled for Main Street. Hennessy whacked him on the left side, and the elephant turned down the thoroughfare, willing enough. He had had his fun, and he was now ready to obey the man behind his ears.

So, why speak of the thousands that followed the pair to the barn? Why refer to the undignified descent of the amateur mahout? Or that the Rajah took the bass drum with him into the stall and declined to surrender the mellifluous souvenir?

But Hennessy's troubles weren't over yet, not by any means. The chief of police gave him twenty-four hours to rid the town of the elephant. On Monday morning he would be shot as a menace to public safety. Morris sent a dozen telegrams, but none “scared up” Rigtop. The telegraph company, however, assured him that all the wires had been received.

The Evening Herald published a Sunday paper. Hennessy came into the editorial rooms about nine that night. He looked careworn. Seated by the city editor's desk were three men. But Hennessy, usually so curious, gave them no heed. How was he going to save poor old rubber sides? To be shot Monday morning, when he hadn't hurt any one! Why, he was going to miss that old elephant like sixty. He hadn't done anything but squirt water on the crowd, and many of them needed it. And as for Desimone's shop, the ten would cover all the damages. It wasn't square——

“Hennessy!”

“All right,” mechanically. “What's wanted?”

“These gentlemen here want to see you.”

“What about? More bills?”

“It's about your blasted elephant. You take another two weeks to-morrow. Don't poke your nose into this office until I send for you. Get out of town. Fade away. This gentleman here,” indicating the dapper man of the three, “is the attorney representing a Mr. Tredwell. The other two are from the Brinx Zoo.”

“What?”

“Yes, Mr. Hennessy. We'd like to talk with you.”

“All right. Come over to Schmidt's.”

Hennessy called up Morris and Castle.

The story was simply told. Rigtop had mortgaged the Rajah to Mr. Tredwell for four thousand, and the elephant belonged to him by default. In turn he had sold the elephant to the Brinx Zoo, and the two dark-bearded gentlemen were trainers. They would put the Rajah on his car Monday morning.

Hennessy reached into his pocket and exhibited the bill from the proprietor of the Granger Hotel. “When did this go by default?” he inquired cautiously.

“On June tenth.”

“In that case your zoo will have to foot this bill. We are not responsible.”

“Hm!” said the attorney, adjusting his glasses. “Forty for hay——”

“There's twenty more not there,” interposed Hennessy.

“Ha! Well, sixty and thirty-two make ninety-two. Very well, Mr. Hennessy. We'll pay that. But, on the other hand, we'll have to ask you for the six hundred odd dollars you've made, as the elephant was ours at the time of the transaction.”

Hennessy looked at Morris; Castle looked at the two. Hennessy, almost a nervous wreck from the strenuous day, laid his head on his arms. He was all in.

The attorney reached over and patted the young man's shoulder. “Cheer up! You've got the right kind of stuff in you, my boy; and any time you're out of a job, write Mulligan here, and he'll fix you up. I have in my pocket here one thousand as a maximum for damages, and so forth. I'll pay the bill, and you chaps can keep the six hundred, and welcome.”

“Hey, Schmidt!” yelled Hennessy. “Bring the silver bucket!”