David Lannarck, Midget
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George S. Harney >> David Lannarck, Midget
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| Transcriber's Note: |
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| Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has |
| been preserved. |
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| Dialect and unusual spelling have been retained in this |
| document. |
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| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this |
| text. For a complete list, please see the end of this |
| document. |
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| David Lannarck, Midget |
| _An Adventure Story_ |
| by GEORGE S. HARNEY |
| |
| |
| _David was small, but Oh my!_ |
| |
| Circus life was exciting enough, but |
| young David Lannarck was tired of being |
| stared at and bullied because of his |
| small size. So when a tall Westerner |
| saved his life in Cheyenne, and David |
| and he became friends, why, the circus |
| midget decided to make his home in the |
| wide open space. |
| |
| With big, rangy Sam Welborn, David |
| started out to become a rancher and live |
| out his days in peace and quiet. But |
| excitement seemed to follow the circus |
| midget wherever he went. The big man and |
| the little one ran into gunman, thieves |
| and rustlers, and where big Sam's |
| strength was not enough, David's wit had |
| to get them out alive. |
| |
| Circus life and Western adventure are a |
| highly unusual as well as a delightful |
| combination, but the author George S. |
| Harney has a first-hand authentic |
| knowledge of both. As a young man in |
| Indiana, he was a personal friend of Lew |
| Graham, the circus announcer for the Big |
| Show, Barnam & Bailey's Circus. Lew |
| Graham, handsomely dressed, told the big |
| audience what came next on the program. |
| During the long winter lay-ups, they |
| would swap yarns in the unique circus |
| lingo, which Harney has recorded in |
| _David Lannarck, Midget_. |
| |
| Later, Mr. Harney served in the |
| Spanish-American War. After the war, |
| "Cap" Harney became active in the |
| development of southern Idaho, and |
| although he sold his holdings there |
| 1945, he confesses that he is still |
| "haunted by the wild isolation of that |
| district west of Cheyenne." |
| |
| Mr. Harney is a native Hoosier, a |
| resident of Crawfordsville, Indiana. |
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David Lannarck,
Midget
_AN ADVENTURE STORY_
by GEORGE S. HARNEY
EXPOSITION PRESS . NEW YORK
Copyright, 1951, by George S. Harney
_All rights reserved
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form_
Published by the Exposition Press Inc.
386 Fourth Avenue, New York 16, N.Y.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Consolidated Book Producers, Inc.
Designed by Morry M. Gropper
_It is very true, that the small things in
life are sometimes the most important._
--CHURCHILL
PART ONE
1
In all her days of presenting the spectacular, Cheyenne had never
witnessed a more even contest than was now being staged this day in
the early autumn of 1932, at the circus grounds in the city's suburbs.
It was a race between a midget and a lout.
The little man ducked under the garish banners portraying the wonders
of the Kid Show, raced the interval to the "big top" of the Great
International, then back again, closely followed by a lanky oaf whose
longer strides evened the contest.
"I'll cut yer ears off," the pursuer snarled, as the midget swung
around the pole supporting the snake banner, thus gaining a distance
on his enemy. "En I'll cut yer heart out," the big one yelled as he
stumbled and almost fell.
As evidence that he would make good his terrifying threat, the lout
flourished a clasp-knife in his right hand; with his left, he made
futile grabs at the midget's coat tail.
The crowd that watched this contest was not of the circus. It was a
gathering of those who came to the lot at an early hour to watch the
Circus City set up shop for the one-day stand in this western
metropolis. Some of the onlookers were railroad men, off duty; some
were cow hands from nearby ranches; a few Indians from the reservation
beyond the willow-fringed Lodgepole Creek, lent their stoical
presence, while several soldiers from the newly christened Fort Warren
with or without official sanction, were on hand to witness the setup.
It was the accepted judgment of those present that the midget and the
lout were staging a ballyhoo--a "come-on"--preliminary to the opening
of the Kid Show. There was no applause as the little man outwitted his
follower by an adroit dodge under the ticket wagon. No one tripped
the lout as the race led through the assembled crowd. If the contest
was a part of the day's program, no spectator seemed willing to play
"stooge" in this preliminary performance.
Some distance to the north where the two great tents of the main show
came together, a group of workmen were operating a stake driver. In
this gang the midget knew he would find understanding friends. If he
could gain sufficient distance to undertake this straightaway, he
would find help. He dived between a spectator's legs, turned to the
right, and ran for this haven of hope.
Two things interrupted his plans. A ramshackle auto moved across his
path. To avoid collision, the midget veered his course to step in a
hole and fall sprawling at the feet of the man clambering out of the
machine. His pursuer was on him in an instant. "I tole ye I would cut
yer heart out," he panted as he brandished the knife. But before he
could execute the threat, the knife was struck from his uplifted hand.
The lout screamed with pain as he grabbed his wrist. "Yu've broke my
arm," he shouted as he danced around the big man. "Why don't ye pick
on one of yer size?" The stranger took in the situation at a glance.
The slanting forehead and the evil though childish face revealed a
moron with whom words of reason would have little effect. He said
nothing.
It was the midget who took charge. He scrambled to his feet, took a
few deep breaths, brushed the dust off his coat, and ordered the moron
back to the side show. "Go back to your mother," he commanded. "Go
right back to Mamie and tell her what you've been doing, and tell her
all of it. Don't look for your knife; I'll get that for you when you
get over your tantrum."
The midget watched the retreating figure. "His mother is a fine
woman," he explained to the stranger. "Has charge of costumes and
assists in makeup. That dunce is with her on a few days vacation from
a school for the feeble-minded.
"And now, Mister, I want to thank you for your timely help. You
probably saved my life, for you can't tell what a half-wit will do,
when in a tantrum and armed with a knife. All my life I've had the
enmity of half-wits. The big ones tease 'em and they take it out on
the little fellow.
"Well, that's that, as dear Marie Dressler says. I certainly am
indebted to you, Mister. What's your name, Mister? I surely ought to
know the name of the man that probably saved my life."
"My name is Welborn, Sam Welborn. I live quite a distance back in the
hills."
"And my name is David Lannarck, and I've got a score of other names
besides, to include Shorty, Prince, Runt, Half-Pint, and others. I'm
with the Kid Show. I was getting my stuff in shape for the opening
when Alfred decided to work on me with that knife. And he about got it
done, because there were none of the show people around to take him
off me. The spectators thought it was some sort of a pre-exhibition.
"And now, Mr. Welborn, let's go down to the cook tent and get a cup of
coffee, and then you can look around the lot until the shows open. I
want you to be my guest for the day. I feel that I can never repay you
for what you have done. If you ever want any help or aid that a little
fellow like me can give, call on me; there are a few things that I can
do."
"Well I do need some help, right now," said Welborn. "I want to
dispose of a couple of bears."
"Bears? What kind of bears?"
"Two black bear cubs, fat and fine and just ready to be trained. I
caught them up in the hills, and find that I have about as much use
for them as I would have for a yacht, or a case of smallpox. I've
tried turning them loose, but they won't go. Knowing that the show was
to be here today, I brought them down in the trailer, hoping some one
wanted two healthy cubs to fit into an act or exhibition."
"Bears, bears," mused the midget. "Truth is, Mr. Welborn, I'm not
posted on the bear market. Offhand, I would say that they were not
worth much to a show that was losing money by the bale. You see, this
good old year of '32 is a bust. A depression hits a circus first and
hardest. Just now, we are cutting the season and have planned a
straightaway back to winter quarters. Instead of going down through
Fort Collins, Greeley, Denver, Pueblo, with a swing through Texas, we
have canceled everything. We play this Union Pacific right through to
Omaha and thence back home by direct rails. So a pair of bear cubs
wouldn't be much of an asset right now."
"Anyhow, let's look 'em over while I think up a plan." The midget
recovered Alfred's knife from the dust and walked over to the trailer
that he noted had a wooden coop of slats aboard. He climbed up on the
wheel where he could see two black, wooly objects, scarcely a foot
high, and nearly that size in length and breadth.
"They do look fat and in good fur," he commented, "and from the way
they are working on the slat on yon side, you won't have them long.
They would be out of the pen in another half-hour."
"That's the point to the whole matter. You just can't keep 'em penned
in, and you can't keep 'em barred out. They have reached the pest
stage and are incorrigible. Now I didn't expect to get much out of
them anyhow," continued Welborn. "If I could find a home for them,
where they would earn their keep, I would be willing to give them to
such a party. Oh, I know it sounds sort of mushy," he hastened to
explain as he noted the questioning look on David's countenance, "but
I killed their mother for raiding our truckpatch and hogpen and I
found these little fellows up near the den, starving and unable to
fend for themselves. I took them home, fed them milk and bread and
sugar and brought them up to where they are. But they have reached the
stage where something must be done. As you see, they are hard to pen
up and it's worse to turn them loose. Life to them is one continuous
round of wrestling, scrapping, knocking over anything that's loose,
and tearing up anything in reach. Whipping them does no good. They cry
and beg until you are sorry and then it's to do all over again. I just
couldn't kill them; it would be like killing a pet dog. So I just
thought that if I could find someone to take them and care for them,
it would be good riddance and give me time to go back to my work."
"Well, that solves the problem," said the midget, gleefully. "I've got
your party. He's old Fisheye Gleason right here with the show. We can
deal with that old buzzard as freely and as profitably as if we were
in a cutthroat pawnshop. Hey, you fellows," he called to some passing
laborers, "have any of you seen old Fisheye in the last hour?"
"Fisheye is linin' up the wagons in the menag," said one of the men.
"Er he may be up at the marquee tellin' the boss where to route the
show," said another. "Maybe he's got Beatty cornered, tellin' him a
new plan fer workin' the cats this afternoon," leered another. The
leader pointed to the far end of the big animal tent.
"I've got him located," said David. "Now you fix that slat so the
bears won't leave for the next hour and we'll work on Fisheye. He has
been with this plant ever since Uncle Ben took it out as a wagon show.
Hear him tell it, he set Barnum up in business and loaned the Ringling
boys their first money. Fisheye is a romancer, unhampered by facts.
But he's a wise old man at that.
"Fisheye Gleason still has his first dollar. He wears the same
corduroy pants that Uncle Ben gave him on his twenty-first birthday.
If we had the time he would tell us his personal experiences with
every celebrity in the circus world. We haven't the time, and we've
got to work fast and cautious.
"Now Fisheye would balk and walk away on us if we offered him these
bears for nothing; he just wouldn't understand it. He dickers in
animals a little; trains 'em and has 'em doing things right away. He
likes 'em and they like old Fisheye. Why, he can take these little
bears and have 'em turning somersaults, dancing, and climbing to their
perches in no time. Then he sells 'em into some big act.
"Fisheye is our meat for this play, but don't sell out too quick."
Leaving the cubs to the further destruction of their cage, the
prospective salesmen wended their way through a maze of sidewalls,
poles, unplaced wagons, cages. On past the refreshment booth that was
setting up in the central area; past a score of elephants, swaying in
contentment over the morning hay; past camels, llamas, zebras, and
other luminaries, to the far end of the big tent where a group of
laborers were aiding two elephants to line up the last of the cages
and vans in a proper circle around the enclosure.
It was all confusing enough to the big Westerner, but the little man
knew where to go. He pressed forward to where a little, old, dried up
"razorback" was regaling two of the workmen with words of experience
if not wisdom.
"'En I told Shako," he declared with emphasis, "that he never could
win back old Mom's confidence, till he got a big armload of sugarcane
en doled hit out to her. En shore enough when we got to Little Rock
and Shako got holt of some sugarcane, he win that old elephant's
respect instanter. En that ain't all! When we got to Memphis en hit
into that big storm, why ole Mom--" But the audience died away to one
man as the midget's voice interrupted.
"Say, Fisheye, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Welborn. Meet
Mr. Welborn, Mr. Gleason. Mr. Welborn here dickers a little in native
animals and has a couple of the slickest, fattest, neatest bear cubs
I've seen in years. He's got too much business to give any time to
training them and I told him of your success with animals and he wants
to make a deal with you."
"What kind of a deal? And where's yer bars?" Fisheye was alert to the
business up to knowing the full import of the deal.
"They are out here in a coop--on a trailer. He brought them down out
of the mountains this morning."
"Did ye ketch 'em this mornin'?" queried Fisheye as he followed the
two salesmen to the truck.
"Naw, he's had 'em in training for two months. Best of all, he knows
how to take care of their hair, how to feed 'em. Look, there they are,
alike as two peas and ready to climb a pole or turn a somersault."
Fisheye was peering through the slats. "I wish we had 'em out whar I
could see 'em better. Now what's yer deal, Prince? Ye said somethin'
about a deal?"
"Well, it's like this, Fisheye. Mr. Welborn could go right on training
these bruins and peddle them through an ad in _Billboard_ for a sure
two hundred smackers, surely by Thanksgiving--"
"Two hundred nothin's," retorted the wary Fisheye, who was not to let
a fancy price go by without protest. "Thar's no bar in the world wuth
a hundred dollars. Why up in the Yallerstone, they offer to give 'em
away!"
"Sure they do, or did last year. They are the old mangy bears that
bother tourists, Jesse James bears, that they want to get rid of. But
they wouldn't sell you a cub for love or money. Bears are scarce this
year. They hint of a bear famine up there.
"And anyhow, you didn't let me finish. Why if you owned these bears
and had 'em climbing an injun ladder right up to their perch in the
animal act, had 'em dancing, turning somersaults, you would ask a half
grand for them and never bat an eye. They would be worth it, and you
know it. But rather than go through the work of getting them ready,
Mr. Welborn is willing to take an even hundred for the two. Better
still, he'll let you make a note for the hundred due in ninety
days--or say Christmas. By that time you've got the bears sold and
your note paid, and jingling the difference."
Fisheye was squinting through the slats. "I wish we had 'em out whar a
man could see what he's buying."
"Haven't you got an empty cage where we could turn them out in the
daylight?" asked the sales manager.
"Shore I have. I jist got pie Rip's cage all cleaned out an ready fer
what come."
"Well, get it open. Cut loose the trailer, Mr. Welborn, and we will
back it in by hand. Here, Happy, you and Joe help push this trailer in
to where Fisheye shows you. These cubs need initiating anyhow."
The trailer was unhooked and carefully backed in through a passage
laid out by the versatile Fisheye. A door was opened in one of the
unplaced cages and the little bears pushed out into a new world. They
scrambled to a far corner, faced about, and waited for the next move.
"There they are," cried the midget enthusiastically, "black as
midnight, fat as butterballs and ready for work." To be sure, the
little salesman could not see up to the level of the cage floor, but
his sales talk never ceased. "How much am I offered, men," he called
out in a voice simulating an auctioneer. "How much for the two?"
"Now you jist cut out yer comedy until I can squint 'em over," said
Fisheye impatiently. "Kin ye move 'em around a little, Mister?"
Welborn reached his hand through the bars and clucked to the little
scared bruins. Hesitatingly they crept up to the extended hand and
then sat up. They were surely butterballs as the midget proclaimed.
"You can't tell which is Amos and which is Andy. Can you, Fisheye?"
challenged the salesman.
"Naw! I don't know 'em by name but that un is the oldest. In twins or
even litters thar's one that's oldest. That un is the oldest, he
starts to doin things fust. Now you jist tell me all over again,
what's yer proposition about me owning these little b'ars?"
"Well, it is as I said. Mr. Welborn here will take your note for an
even hundred for both bears. The note will be due Christmas. We can go
right over to the ticket wagon and have Lew draw the note, payable at
the Wabash Valley Trust Company for an even hundred, and the cubs are
yours. And here's another thing," David motioned Fisheye over to
another wagon and out of Mr. Welborn's hearing. "Here's the rest of
the plan. I am going to offer this man Welborn ninety dollars for your
note. He won't be bothered by having to send it to the bank, and he'll
take my offer. There's where I come in; I make a ten spot without any
investment."
"How come?" squawked the amazed Fisheye. "Ye don't own no bars, ye
ain't out no cash, en ye draw a sawbuck. Now jist why can't this
mountain man take ninety dollars in folding money offen me and cut out
all this bankin' stuff. I don't want any note at the Wabash Valley
nohow. They'd jist harass me into payin' it. Jist cut all that out and
let him take the foldin' money."
"Well, maybe he will," sighed the super salesman. "But I thought as
cheap as they were, I ought to have a ten spot out of it. But I resign
in your favor. It's all among us folks anyhow. Just you go over and
spot him the ninety and see if you win."
Fisheye went back of a neighboring cage to search himself for the
needed cash. The salesman turned to Welborn who in the whole deal had
said never a word. "It worked out all right," chuckled the midget.
"Fisheye is saying spells over his bankroll and is kissing some of the
tens and twenties a fond and reluctant farewell. He will offer you
ninety dollars and you take it. It's better than I'd hoped. You see,
Fisheye has his money sewed to him and it makes it hard to acquire.
Some of it will be plastered together, for Fisheye hasn't taken a bath
since part of the Barnum-Jenny Lind Special went off the bridge at
Wheeling. The little bears will always know their Fisheye, day or
night."
At this juncture Fisheye returned and counted down the cash. Two of
the twenties and one ten, were printed in the early twenties.
"And now, Mister Welborn, we will have that cup of coffee and I must
go to work. I want you to see the Kid Show and the Big Show as my
guest. I'll have the boys park your machine and trailer right back of
our show where it will be safe until you want it. After the main
performance we will have dinner, say about four o'clock and we will
call it a day."
"I think you should have this money," said Welborn as they drank their
coffee. He handed Fisheye's keepsakes to David. "I did not expect
anything and I am satisfied that the bears are in good hands."
"Not a cent," said David, waving the money aside. "I still owe you
more than I can ever repay. Besides all this, we've done Fisheye a
good turn. He'll have those cubs doing things before snow flies."
"He has always wanted a Happy Family Act, and now he's got a start.
From time to time he will add native animals like foxes, raccoons,
badgers, and maybe a porky or two and label them 'Native Americans'
and sell them to someone, cage and all, before next season."
"Fisheye is versatile. Every winter he has a bunch of misfit dogs, and
out of the outfit he'll get some smart ones that will train well. He
is good, too, on a dog and pony act. Once a zebra got its leg broke in
swinging one of the big poles in place. It looked like there was
nothing to do but shoot it. But Fisheye salvaged the cripple; he
taught it to get up and down with the leg in splints; cured him,
except for a slight limp, and finally sold the beast as the only zebra
that was ever broken to harness. Fisheye is a grand old liar but he's
a fine animal man."
2
Circuses--the big ones, with menageries--have a tradition: "the show
must go on." Storms, fires, rail disasters, major accidents--even
death--shall not deter. The show _must_ go on. The Great International
had lived fully up to this tradition. In all of its growing years, it
had met and overcome any and all obstacles that might hinder its
progress and promises. In the years past, a versatile routing agent
could and did avoid many minor financial losses by routing the show to
other fields. If a mine strike prevailed in one section, that district
was missed by careful routings; if the boll weevil prevailed, the
cotton belt was a closed field; if wheat failed in the Northwest, or
mills were closed in Gary, the bookings were deflected to other marts.
But the year 1932 was different; fertile fields there were not. It was
not a case of dodging; it was a plain case of trying to hit. And there
was no place.
The Great International was making a brave effort to stem the tide of
depression. Its great spread of canvas billowed over many new and
novel attractions. It boasted of the largest herd of tame elephants in
all the world. Its aerial acts were new to the circus lovers of
America. Its grand opening was a riot of splendid colorings and
beauty, never surpassed in all pageantry. Yet old Depression was
winning at every stand. Historic Cheyenne, with its years of
background in gathering humanity to its playdays, was little better
than the rest. Business prudence dictated the routings from here on,
and the route led to winter quarters. It was as David Lannarck said:
"We play the U.P. to Omaha and then home."
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