A Bright Tomorrow (19 page)

The first person he saw when he walked onto the grounds was Cecily. Her eyes opened wide, and then she grinned. “Come for more celebrating, Owen?”

“No, I've come for fifty dollars.”

She laughed. “Already spent it. Maybe we can work out something else. Come on and eat.”

Owen followed her to the cook tent and was greeted by none other than the colonel himself. “Why, it's our young friend…sit down! Bring this man a steak.”

“Watch out for him,” Cecily warned Owen. “He wouldn't give you a steak if he didn't want something.”

Colonel Fletcher protested, but after the meal, he called Owen over. “Come to my wagon, Mr. Stuart. I have a proposition for you.”

“Never mind the wagon. “What's your offer?”

“Why, I've lost the services of Iron Mike, and it's your fault,” Colonel Fletcher stated. “Mike decided to retire. So I'd like for you to join our little troupe. If you can lick Mike, you can lick anybody. How about it, my boy?”

Owen thought it over for almost ten seconds. “I'll take it, Colonel.”

“Wait a minute, you fool!” Cecily yelped. “Make him pay you more than he paid Mike!”

“Now my dear—”

“Let's you and
me
go to your wagon, Colonel,” Cecily said. “I am now this man's manager…and I'm saying he doesn't put on one boxing glove until we've talked terms!”

The pair left, arguing about money, but Owen was content. In his mind he could picture the map he'd pored over for years. Now he'd see those little towns and those big mountains for himself.

Owen Stuart was free at last to see the world!

T
he April sunshine warmed Owen as he sat with his back braced against the canvas of the smaller of the two tents. Sleepy and relaxed after having helped set up both tents, he let his fingers run over the frets of the five-string banjo he held, singing softly:

The new tune by Nora Bayes and Hack Norworth had taken the country by storm, and Owen liked its sentimental flavor. He sang the last line again: “Shine on, harvest moon, for me and my gal,” then strummed a progression of chords.

As he plucked out the tune once again, he smiled, thinking how Colonel Fletcher had seized on his musical ability when he had first joined the troupe nine months earlier. “Why, my boy, the Holy Book tells us that we are not to bury our talents, does it not?” And on this righteous foundation, Fletcher had cleverly utilized Owen's fine singing voice and ability to play the guitar and the banjo (with no extra pay, of course!). He had come up with the name ‘Kid Nightingale' for Owen, and when Owen joined Sid on the platform, he did as much to draw in customers as Sid's fast patter. He'd sing one of the new fast show tunes, such as “You're a Grand Old Flag,” George M. Cohan's newest hit, or “In the Good Old Summertime,” the new waltz everyone was dancing to. Then, after Owen had polished off his opponent, he would slip off his gloves and sing some ballad requested by one of the ladies in the audience—usually a maudlin one, such as “Sweet Adeline.”

The colonel knew how to get the most out of his people, and Owen's rugged good looks and talent brought the young ladies—and some not so young ones!––into the tent like lemmings.

It had been, for Owen, a glorious nine months. The hard work of setting up and breaking down the tents and gear, the all-night journeys to the next town, the nightly bouts—often repeated as many as three times to catch all the customers—all of this was child's play to him. Once he even admitted to Cecily, “It's a good thing the colonel doesn't know it, but I'd do this for nothing!” She had stared at him in blank disbelief, saying emphatically, “Don't ever tell that old skinflint, Owen. He'd take you up on it!”

Now as he sat enjoying the fine New England sunshine, he thought of all the small towns the show had reached. Colonel Fletcher had bought four used railroad cars, and the troupe had modified them into sleeping quarters and storage for the equipment, so they had played only towns served by the railroad. Owen thought of them now as he sat strumming his banjo with a practiced hand—the Cajun towns in southern Louisiana, the austere New England towns with their inevitable steepled white churches, the homely towns of Kansas, the blistering villages of Texas and New Mexico, the towns crouched in Colorado under the mighty Rockies. He had soaked them all in, almost gluttonous in his aching desire to see the entire country.

He had saved no money, for what he didn't require for his own needs, he sent back to Logan, instructing him to use it for some fun for himself and the younger ones. When Logan had asked him how he could fight so many tough men, he'd written his brother:

As he sat there he thought about how much he'd like to go home for a visit, but that couldn't be for at least six more months when the colonel was taking the show south again. Just then his thoughts were interrupted when Colonel Fletcher pulled up in his Model A and heaved himself out.

Fletcher took great pride in his automobile, though his driving skills were limited, and rarely did they leave a town without one of his misadventures putting a fresh scar on the shiny black finish! He'd even had the workers adapt one of the railroad cars so the machine could be carried from town to town.

“Ah, there you are, Owen!” he called out, walking over to hold out a newspaper. “You'll be interested in a piece in this paper, my boy. Front page—an editorial by your brother.”

Owen took the paper eagerly. Amos never sent him copies of his work, but he was getting famous, so Owen got them when he could, collecting them in a scrapbook. The story read:

Owen whistled softly. “Strong medicine, Colonel!”

“Indeed, but all true, every word!” The showman was tremendously proud of having the brother of one of the premier journalists in America in his show and never failed to mention the connection when introducing Owen. He was also a fierce supporter of Teddy Roosevelt, and it was his dream to meet the president someday. “Is your brother still seeing President Roosevelt from time to time?”

Owen nodded. “Yes, he interviewed him last week. I guess Teddy has a soft spot for his old Rough Riders. He doesn't like William Randolph Hearst or his paper, but he likes Amos.” He laughed suddenly, remembering a letter he'd had from Amos in which he related an incident he'd witnessed involving the president.

“Amos said he was with the president earlier this year when he went to Cambridge for his twenty-fifth reunion. President Eliot never liked Teddy, Amos says, but felt obliged to invite him to stay at his house. So Amos went along. He said Roosevelt took Amos to his room, then when the president pulled off his coat, Amos saw a big pistol in his jacket. And he said when they went downstairs and President Eliot asked Roosevelt if they would be having breakfast together, Teddy said, ‘Oh, no, I promised Bishop Lawrence I'd take breakfast with him…and…goodness gracious!' clapping his hand to his side, ‘I've forgotten my gun!'”

The story delighted the colonel, who laughed heartily. “And there was the president of the United States rushing off to see the bishop, while the president of Harvard was horrified by the highest official in the land carrying a loaded gun!”

“Which is illegal in Massachusetts.” Owen grinned. “Anyway, I wrote Amos that if we ever play anywhere near Washington, he'll have to get us an audience with the president. Amos mentioned it to Teddy, and know what the president said? He said, ‘Bully! Capital! And I'll have a boxing match with the young fellow!'”

“He's a fighter, that Teddy Roosevelt!” Colonel Fletcher said, admiration shading his tone.

“Yes, and Amos is afraid that'll get us into a shooting war someday.” Owen nodded. “Well, Colonel, guess I'll go into town and pick up a few things at the store.”

“Take the Ford, my boy,” Fletcher said generously. “It's too far to walk.”

“Thanks, Colonel.”

Owen had learned to drive the Model A, and it gave him great pleasure to use it from time to time. He had figured out how to crank the engine without breaking his arm and was so strong that it was not difficult for him. He set the spark, gave the crank a mighty pull, then leapt into the seat and manipulated the controls expertly, sending the Ford chuffing down the road that led to town.

As he sailed along, he spotted a hobo jungle set back from the road, close to a small stream, and marked the spot. When he arrived in the town, he parked the Ford and explored the main street. He mailed his letters to Amos, Lylah, and Logan, then ambled back down the street, stopping at the drugstore on impulse.

It was a long, narrow shop, with glass-lined cases around the walls and a long soda fountain flanked by steel stools along one wall. He studied the list of offerings carefully:

SODA FOUNTAIN

DRUGS

“Guess I'll have a grape lemonade,” Owen said. He sipped the sweet beverage, wishing he could buy one for his sisters and brothers and reminding himself to tell Logan to take them all in to the drugstore at Mountain View for a treat.

Owen strolled out of the drugstore and stepped into the general store, which smelled pleasantly of leather, cloth, and fresh vegetables, and spent half an hour picking out a few things. He thought of the hobo jungle and bought some cans of beans and bacon—something he often did, for he liked to talk to hobos.

When he came to the counter, his eyes lit on an advertisement for store-bought cigarettes. There, as big as life, was a picture of Lylah, smiling at him and holding up a package of Bravo cigarettes. According to the caption under her picture, she was saying, “I always smoke Bravo cigarettes! Why don't you try them?”

When the clerk came to tally his purchases, Owen asked, “How much for the picture?”

The clerk blinked in surprise, but grinned and said, “Take it, buddy. Just don't tell the boss.” He stared at the picture and shook his head. “She's the cat's pajamas!”

Owen put his supplies on the floorboard, cranked up the Model A, and drove out of town. As he made his way along the road, he saw a broken tree limb stuck in the ground with a tin can on top—the sign of a hobo jungle, Owen had learned from his talks with the tramps. He found the camp beside a small stream, where about twelve men were sitting around while one man tended a large kettle, stirring its contents with a tree limb that had been stripped clean of bark.

“Well, sir, you're just in time for dinner,” said the cook. He was a very fat man with a pair of bright black eyes, and he wore castoff clothing, none of which fit, and a black derby on his head.

“We can't feed everybody who comes down the pike!”

Owen looked over to see a hulking tramp glaring at him. The man was a troublemaker, Owen knew instantly, but he smiled and held up the box of groceries. “Something for the pot.”

“Why, that's handsome of you, sir!” the cook said. “Very handsome!” He began to pull out the contents, examining them with a flourish. “I'm Wilber Watterson, sir. And you are—?”

Owen gave his name, then sat down and listened as Watterson kept up a running line of chatter. Owen liked to talk with the hobos and had decided that if he ever lost his job, he'd join their ranks. They led a hard life, exciting and dangerous, dodging the railroad crews. But they quickly became expert at begging, learning all the tricks of reaping a harvest from the people of the small towns along the railroad line.

By the time Watterson had finished his mulligan stew to his satisfaction, Owen had most of the tramps pegged. They were all, he saw, afraid of the beefy-shouldered tramp who had challenged him—Red Bennett by name. The man was not old, but his face was cruel, and he would have no mercy on a man, Owen understood instinctively.