The Rattle-Snake: Being The Romance Of A Clown

By Sara Haardt

Old Timothy shuffled over toward the manager’s office. He stopped a minute, brushed the dust
from his baggy trousers, knocked the ashes from a discolored, smelly pipe, and then advanced
again with a dragging reluctant step. Opposite the office door of the Great London Shows,
Timothy halted and rapped uncertainly. In answer to an ominous rumble from within, he opened
it slowly, closed it, and then stood shifting his great weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Well, Timothy?”

“Sorry sir—-sorry to disturb yer but the charmer’s lef. Cleaned out last night ‘thout a soul
knowin’, so I come as soon as I found out.”

The manager of the London Shows threw down the cigar he had been smoking. “What’s the
matter this time? I thought she and the Siamese had patched up their disturbance.”

“Yessir, but ‘twasn’t that. It’s the big snake, the rattler, she was afraid of. He’s been acting bad of
late–an’--an’”

“And what?”

“An’ somebody told her that he always acted queer like this afore he killed them last two
charmers. One of the Siamese says that she flew all ter pieces an’ said three was a fatal
number and how she wasn’t going to take no chances with a fool snake that had bit two other
wimmen an’ killed ‘em. So she lef.”

“So it was the Siamese that told her about the other two. Those damn twins are the cause of
more racket than all the wild animals put together.”

“Yessir, yessir, but that snake is prutty bad, Mr. Harding. I never hev said anything afore but here
of late he is gone wild entirely. I am prutty sure he will get the next one who tries that charming
stunt. He’ll stand it for a while but after that he lays for ‘em.”

“You’re getting old and losing your nerve, Timothy. But we have no time to discuss the snake.
We have got to get a charmer and get her before we pull out of quarters tomorrow night. All the
bills are out advertising our mammoth snake act and the King Rattler—it will mean a loss of
money and to be fair with you, Timothy, the show is not up to the standard this year and we
need the act.”

“Yessir, yessir—”
“Well go on and be on the lookout and those infernal Siamese that if they kick up another row,
I’ll tin can their act—and leave them here without quarters.”
Timothy shuffled out, his painful duty performed. Sometimes the manager did not receive the old
trainer too graciously, and of late Timothy had been the bearer of much that had caused his
receptions to become rather injurious. But the manager was a man of moods. Today the news
had been bad enough, but it had been received with comparative calmness. Timothy relit the
odorous pipe and, hands deep in his blousey pockets, started briskly toward the huge mess
tent. Half way across the field he halted, threw his pipe down, and returned to the office.

“You called, didn’t you, sir?”

“I forgot to tell you, Timothy, send the little girl I put in the trapeze act yesterday back here. I
have been thinking that I would giver her a try out on this snake proposition. We can do without
her in the trapeze—she told me yesterday that she had had experience with snakes, though, I’ll
admit she doesn’t look it. She’ll never make the hit Zita did, but we can run her in for a try out
anyway.”

“Yessir, yessir.” Timothy went out slowly and after recovering his pipe took a roundabout way to
the mess tent. He pulled his shapeless hat over his face and with hands clasped behind him
paced back and forth a number of times before the half-raised flap of the tent. Then with a sigh
of resignation and a muttered, “I’ve never seen a snake charmer with a baby mouth and blue
eyes afore,” he pushed his hat on the back of his head and strode in.

Since his purchase of the Great London Show, Richard Harding had been confronted with
enough to sour his disposition as manager. The news today he had received with unusual
serenity, although he resented Timothy’s tactful truths concerning the snake. Harding himself
knew that what the trainer had hinted was sadly true, yet he was all the more desirous of seeing
the great rattler conquered and he had no scruples in ordering the blue-eyed girl into his
cage.The only thing that Harding did regret was the undeniable fact that her eyes were blue.A
blue-eyed baby-faced snake charmer was a rather shaky experiment even for the Great London
Shows, and Harding had his own doubts and fears regarding the King Rattler himself. He had
seen the snake only a few hours after the death of its last trainer. Harding recalled now the huge
restless body, and the tail that beat against the floor of the cage with an angry rattling sound.
Above all Harding recalled the flat, darting head and the glittering eyes. Timothy was right. The
snake would get the next one.

The girl did not knock. Harding started as he looked up and saw her leaning against the door,
one hand still on the knob.

“You sent for me?”

The manager looked at her steadily. “You are the girl who came to me yesterday for a position?”

The girl moved forward. “Yes, I came to you yesterday.” She answered slowly.
“I think I recall your saying that you had had some experience with snakes. I did not need a
charmer at the time, but I find that Zita has left after another misunderstanding with her friends,
the Siamese. Of course, if you will take the position I can give you a raise, otherwise I feel that I
could not take you on.

The girl had come very close to the desk. She had paled slightly and one slim hand held tightly
to a fold of her rather shabby serge dress. “I told you so—why, yes, but my experience has been
so slight that I feel I am hardly competent.”

“I am willing to give you a try-out, Miss-er-er.”

“Mary Elizabeth Smith, sir.”

“Miss Smith, I feel sure you will do. The shows start tomorrow night on their yearly tour. We are
leaving these small towns of Alabama and are going north first. There is a swamp just ahead of
us where we will stop for a few hours to secure some smaller snakes. I believe we lost a number
of ours during the cold; at least Timothy had said we need a few more, and by the way, Miss
Smith, you of course, understand that you would perform with the big rattle-snake?”

“And you don’t feel you can retain me in the trapeze?”

“No,” Harding relit his cigar. “I don’t feel that I could. Your salary will be tripled, however, if you
consent to take the snake act.”

“Yesterday, I saw the King Rattler,” said the girl. “I think he is the largest rattle-snake I have ever
seen. I am told that he has a history. Did you capture him in Alabama?”

Harding puffed impatiently at his cigar. “We didn’t capture him,” he said. “Three years ago we
left these same winter quarters and started on a tour of the towns in north Alabama. We were
pulling out of a mountainous district one night after a performance when someone knocked at
the door of my car. I admitted an old white-haired mountaineer and after a few minutes he
explained that he wanted to sell me a huge rattle-snake that he had captured in the hills. We
had only a few snakes at the time, so I bought the rattler for five dollars. At first, Timothy thought
he would die–he was so big–but later on the cage life seemed to agree with him. After a while
he became more and more vicious, especially after remaining in winter quarters or in one place
long. I became strangely interested in the snake. Timothy brought me tales of him
occasionally–he calls him temperamental–says rattle-snakes usually are fractious like women.
At any rate, the King Rattler possesses extraordinary capabilities and temperament for a snake.
He won’t allow a man near his cage and a woman alone can touch him. Last year, when we
passed through his old home in the mountains he became so vicious that he broke several
boards in the car and barely missed getting out. Timothy heard him and went to the snake car.
He said the King rattled continuously all night, but after we passed out of the region he became
quiet again and we had no more trouble with him until—.”
“Until he bit his first trainer—” the girl looked at Harding as she finished his sentence. He
frowned.

The Clown Man took Mary Elizabeth to supper and sat beside her during the meal. The circus
people did not like the Clown Man. There was something refined and cultivated about the little
clown for all his grease paint, and the circus people resented it. Timothy grunted when he
refused onions and placed both knife and fork on his plate, and the Fat Lady had said with biting
sarcasm and her grandest air that it made her sick “to see a common clown putin’ on airs and
tryin’ to ack ginteel.”

When Mary Elizabeth came she fitted strangely into the vacant place at the little clown’s side.
She derived an actual comfort from his delicate appetite and the soul of the little clown was
delighted in turn with this girl who didn’t gulp her food or spill water on the red table cloth. They
were simply congenial. The girl knew that beneath the grease paint and tawdry make-up of the
clown there lay a spirit of chivalry and refinement.

The Fat Lady laughed to herself. The Fat Lady usually laughed when she thought of unpleasant
things. “ ‘taint natural,” she said, “for a girl to eat so little. She’ll forget her manners and high
fallootin’ ideers when she gets into the ring a couple of times, and I ain’t mistaken that snake’ll
make her forget worsn’ that.”

Mary Elizabeth was unconscious of the commentary glances tonight. She was partly aware of
the circus people’s dislike for her manners and quiet tastes. The Fat Lady had spared words but
not looks. But there was one member of the group that gazed at Mary Elizabeth with silent
adoration. The other Siamese sat throughout the entire meal without a wrangling whisper to
Betty and aped with piteous awkwardness the every movement of Mary Elizabeth. The climax
came when she slipped from her place and proffered the girl her slice of pie. Betty’s amazement
was too much to express. “I thought you liked apple pie, Angel Gardiner.”

“Er—I do sometimes,” replied her twin. “But I guess I et too much licorice.”

“Mighty funny,” gulped Betty between huge bites of her own slice. “But I’d ‘ave swapped you the
rest of my licorice for it.

Mary Elizabeth did not linger about the table with the circus people. She walked down to the
cars and then, tired from the heat and strenuous day, started for her tent. She had gone only
half the distance when she heard hurried footsteps on the gravel path and a sudden turn
brought her face to face with the little clown. He stood before her in the semi-darkness, a
grotesque figure in his costume of white spotted with black polka dots. Only half the makeup
had been applied to his face and Mary Elizabeth could hardly keep from laughing outright at the
ludicrous effect. “Why, Mr. Everett!” she gasped.
“Er,---Mis Smith,” he began breathless, “is it true that you have consented to perform with the
Rattler?” The girl inclined her head. “But you have not been told—surely you do not know the
real danger that lies in the very look of this snake!”
“But I do know,” said the girl quietly. “You are needlessly alarmed , Mr. Everett. I have been
informed of the fact that the snake bit and caused the death of his trainers.”

“Ah, so he told you then. I thought surely you did not know when I heard the Siamese
discussing it after you left. Surely, though, Miss Smith, you can’t realize the real danger.” The
little clown threw out his hands. “It is foolhardy—absurd—a mere whim of Hardin’s to force you
in this. You must go to him and refuse—”

“It is useless,” intercepted the girl quietly. “I have given him my word, Mr. Everett, but I thank you
for coming to me anyway.”

The girl moved on, the little clown stood still on the path, a sadly dejected figure in his gaudy
show clothes. “Mary Elizabeth—Mary Elizabeth!” he called tensely. It was too late. On the slope
of the hill just above him the Clown Man saw a stream of light from her tent flickering in and out
among the purple shadows.

***

Mary Elizabeth awoke with a fierce tugging at her shoulder. A warm, very alive something gave
a final push and she sat up staring into the utter blackness about her. Suddenly a sickening odor
of licorice came to her nostrils. “O, it’s you Angel!” she laughed jerkily.

“ ‘Taint Angel,” cried the excited voice of Betty. “Oh! Miss Mary Elizabeth hurry–run, the King
Rattler’s loose an’ after Angel. You ain’t afeared, Miss Mary Elizabeth—you ain’t afeared.” Mary
Elizabeth threw a blue kimona across her shoulders and pulled Betty to the entrance of the tent.

“Do you mean it, Betty? She gasped, shaking the twin gently.

“Honest, Miss Mary Elizabeth, ‘taint a joke this time. The Rattler’s out an’ in our tent–a charmin’
Angel. I run out for help but Mister Harding won’t let ‘em shoot cause it’s the King. Plee-ee-se,
Miss Mary Elizabeth save Angel, plee-ee-se!”

Half way down the hill, Mary ELizabeth still heard the sobs of Betty, and she ran faster. The
damp, dewey grass wet her bare feet and the bottom of her thin gown, but the girl did not stop.
At the flap of the twin’s tent she saw a frantic group, and then she heard from within the regular
vibrating rattle of the King–the same she had heard at noon just before the great snake had
been fed. Mary Elizabeth shivered, drew the folds of the blue kimona close about her slim body
and stopped in the midst of the half-crazed group. “Let me in,” she said firmly. “Tie the flap down
after me and don’t come until I call you!”

Old Timothy obeyed without a murmur. The little group grew strangely quiet. From the tent came
a louder rattling and the thumping of the snake’s heavy body against the ground, then—a softer
rattling, a fierce purring, and then the stillness of death.
At dawn Timothy moved trembling toad the loosely tied flap.

“Give the girl a chance,” murmured the manager close at his shoulder. “Let her conquer him.
She can do it.”

“I’m goin’ in.” answered Timothy gruffly. “I’m hardened to some things but not to murder under
my very eyes.”

For once Harding did not reply. The old trainer’s words at last began to make an impression and
he subsided quietly as Timothy’s big rough hands struggled with the knot. The flap was raised
cautiously—Timothy thrust his body in, while Harding remained at the opening. The place was
so still that the manager could hear the older man’s heavy breathing. Then he looked in the
direction of Timothy’s half-raised finger. On the grass lay the great body of the Rattler, his huge,
flat head lowered with the glittering eyes filmed and set. Timothy kicked the snake with the toe
of his shoe. “Dead,” he muttered colorlessly, “and conquered,” he added fiercely. The King
Rattler was conquered! EVery curve of the huge body expressed surrender—the relaxed
buttons on the tail—the lowered head, even the eyes had a charmed, dreamy expression.
Harding sighed and looked up at Timothy. The old trainer bent suddenly toward the other body
on the grass. The manager too, looked at the slim figure, baby mouth and lastly the blue staring
eyes—still fixed on the eyes of the Rattler.

Timothy stooped and placed a trembling hand on the girl’s white forehead. “My God,” he
groaned, “she’s dead!”

Harding stumbled blindly out but Timothy stopped first to gather the rosy-faced sleeping Angel in
his shaking arms.

On his way to the tent, the old trainer lit his odorous pipe and puffed thoughtfully. He passed the
empty snake cage with its dawn yawning significantly. The cage had been opened! Not a board
or nail was broken loose. Timothy pondered and shuffled on. A sharp turn brought him directly in
front of the tent of the Clown Man. Through the opening he saw a prostrate figure, face
downward, on the bumpy mattress. For a minute Timothy hesitated. In that minute he had seen
the shoulders of the little clown quiver. It was enough. With a vicious puff of his pipe, the old
trainer started briskly down the path. Over the hill came the sun and a sudden flood of light.
Timothy rubbed his eyes with the back of a roughened hand. It was day.

***

The circus moved on. At the close of another day Timothy found himself in the midst of the old
routing. The great tent had been pitched and even now it was filled with anxious, expectant
humanity. A whiff of hot peanuts reached him mingled with the sickening odor of the over-sweet
red lemonade. Timothy started through the maze of dressing-rooms. “Clowns to the sawdust!”
he thundered. A half dozen rollicking figures swept past him. Just for a moment the last one
hesitated. Then—Timothy saw the grotesque face of the Clown Man as, with a jump and a
tumble, he rolled in the ring midst a wild burst of applause.

In the stuffy little dressing room Timothy sat on the soap box opposite the blurred, half cracked
mirror. A smothering odor of grease-paint and oil so filled the place that he pulled out his pipe
and lit it by the flickering candle. On a nail in the tent pole, he suddenly caught sight of a gaudy
new costume. It was white—clean—with great black polka dots sprinkled artistically here and
there. Timothy rose and fingered the stiff, black ruff at the neck. He started to lift it from the nail
when it slipped and fell on the board floor with a clinking, metallic sound. Timothy stooped to
pick it up. As he leaned over he saw a faint gleam of metal near the toe of his shoe, and from
the darkness he slowly lifted into the circle of light a bunch of keys—the keys to the snake
cage!

For a long time the old trainer stood in the smoky haze of the dressing room. A sudden burst of
laughter from the sawdust struck raspingly his strained nerves. Timothy did not know he had
nerves until tonight. Above the uproar he could hear distinctly a laugh–-a wild cackling laugh.
To Timothy it sounded like an awful broken sobbing–the sobbing of the Clown Man. But the
crowd laughed and applauded—applauded! Timothy stumbled to the cracked mirror. His own
face haggard and white stared strangely back. Suddenly the image blurred. The old trainer let
the tears course down his weather-beaten cheeks. He had seen—he had seen beneath the
sham and grease-paint of existence!

The End