If I Were You (Stories from the Golden Age) Read online

  She smiled in a fluttery way. “How are you today, darling?”

  “Very fine, thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Hermann”—she reached out a ruin of a hand and touched the back of his own—“must we be so formal? After all, we are engaged.”

  “Forgive me, my lovely one,” he said, “but I was so engrossed with affairs—” Then inspiration struck: “Unless we can show a profit on our balance sheets, we mustn’t think of our own private affairs. For I promise I shall never marry you until I can prove my full worth.”

  “But we are doing such good business—”

  “Prices are up everywhere,” he reminded her. “Our feed bill alone is enough to ruin us. And our licenses have doubled, what with sales taxes and all. Ach, my darling, it is not good. But with me—I repeat my vow. I shall make a profit, before we are man and wife.”

  “Oh, Hermann—you are so noble.”

  Hermann smiled in a somewhat sickly fashion and again addressed his steak. She had been such a lovely woman once, he thought. Too bad she had not been able to keep the years from rolling over her. She was active—indeed, it was said she could outride any rosinback in the show. But that was hardly compensation. He wished desperately for a moment that he had never thought up the idea of proposing to her, but still—he could hold her off a little longer, with skill. And when the final time came, he would leave a note. How she would squirm when she read it! It was his one consoling thought in an otherwise revolting association.

  He patted her hand in hypocritical affection as he stood up. “Never mind, my dear. Just leave all this to me, and we’ll show a profit yet.”

  “If I didn’t have you, Hermann . . .”

  Hurriedly he sought the morning outside the car. He stood for a moment, mantling himself with majesty, and then strode through the piles of gear toward the grounds. Ahead of him the tail end of the march was filing into the street to the brassy tune of the steam fiddle and the cloppety-clop of horses’ hoofs. The grounds were deserted save for razorbacks, lot lice, a few spielers and menagerie men. These nodded politely but, since they were not worth notice, Schmidt swept by.

  With the air of a king entering his palace, he climbed into the wagon which would ordinarily be the governor’s office, but which only he occupied. Easing into a seat at the desk, he unlocked the safe at its side and drew out the books.

  For the next half-hour he made the art of the show’s slip artists seem pale, and as he worked a stiff smile of lofty satisfaction came upon his face. It went away swiftly when there sounded a knock. He threw the books into the safe and slammed the door.

  A very beautiful girl timidly entered at his call. She had great, soft eyes and long blond curls, and the loveliness of her figure belied its trained strength.

  “Betty!” he said, pulling out a chair.

  “I didn’t come to . . . to sit down,” she replied.

  But nevertheless he eased her into the seat. Resentfully but scared, she sat on the chair’s edge, staring at him.

  There was triumph in his voice. “I knew, sooner or later, that you’d come to me of your own accord. After all, it isn’t fitting that I should always be the one to arrange meetings.”

  “I came,” she said in a strained tone, “to tell you that this . . . this wild plan of yours can’t go on.”

  “Nonsense! You have been thinking too much. Don’t we love each other? Can’t—”

  “No!” she cried out. “Don’t say that, Hermann. You haven’t any right. I have never told you I loved you.”

  “It is enough,” he smiled, “that I love you. And my plans are your plans. Before long we will leave this show. You shall divorce Gordon and marry me. We’ll be rich, and you shall be more famous than you have ever dreamed.”

  “It’s all crazy,” said Betty, trying to withstand the onslaught of his personality. “I’ve been trying to think straight about this. And . . . I still love Gordon, Hermann. He may be rough and forgetful—”

  “There was a day,” said Hermann, “when you two had small enough spots.”

  “That was a long time ago. I’ve worked hard to become an ace. I’m one of your stars! I work hard!”

  “True, you were fortunate in having Gillman kill himself. But of course, if you insist that you will not go with me, you and Gordon can, of course, go together. And the big cats can stay with me, for there’s a matter of feed bills for them. And there are many wire acts I can get. There’s a telegram here somewhere”—and he made a pretense of searching for it—“from Thomas and Maletto, wondering if I could place them. Their high wire—”

  “Hire them, then!” she cried. “I can’t go on, Hermann. Give us back our contracts—”

  Hermann laughed sharply. “I picked you both out of the mud and taught you everything you know—and you talk to me this way! But there’s one thing you’ve forgotten. Jerry Gordon is happy just so long as he is playing games with his beloved big cats. He was ruined once. You know what he did—he blamed you for everything and lushed all the liquor in sight. And he’d have killed you with abuse if I hadn’t yanked you up out of nothing, to star him with his cats and you on the high wire.”

  “He . . . he didn’t mean to be so bad to me. He’s a good man, Hermann. He fights forty big cats all together in the arena and there isn’t another man in the business who can do that. And I have a high wire without a net, and the customers—”

  “Without my consent, you and Gordon are nothing. Without his act he’ll drop even lower than he was when I picked you up and starred you both. It would probably kill him, Betty. And you as well.”

  “But he loves me, Hermann! What’s past is past! It’s useless to think of running away with you and divorcing him. Crazy!”

  “And yet if you don’t,” said Hermann, smiling, “you’ll very much wish you had.”

  The strain of holding out so long against his will at last broke her own. She began to weep quietly and forlornly, and when at last he cupped her face in his hands and said, “Of course you’ll go with me, won’t you?” she could only nod a weary assent.

  And, leaving his wagon after she had gone, Hermann Schmidt appeared a match for more than a dozen mere lion trainers. An aloof demigod, secure in his realm, proud of his abilities and cunning, he passed the sideshow—with no eyes at all for the midget who stood there, apparently waiting for someone.

  Little Tom Little was so filled with excitement that he found great difficulty in breathing. To him, Schmidt was a Brobdingnagian, a Zeus and a Colossus of Rhodes all superadded into one, and when, in this breath before the zero minute, he contemplated what he was about to do, he was flabbergasted by his own temerity.

  Certain he was that Schmidt knew all about it and was about to break his crop on Tommy’s small skull. For there he came, as though riding the Juggernaut car, gigantic and unstoppable, the science of black magic to the contrary.

  But so fascinated had Tommy been since the instant of conceiving this bold plan that any passing doubt was drowned in a torrent of enthusiasm.

  He must time this to the split instant. He must not forget those words which seared his brain.

  Eagerly he sought Schmidt’s eye.

  Proud to bursting of both his height and bearing, Schmidt was unable to brook even a glimpse of a midget. But eyes are traitorous things which follow anything that moves or sparkles, and as a last resort, Tommy had armed himself with a small silver whip. He swooshed it viciously through the air. Schmidt glanced that way, instantly revolted by the midget’s image.

  To a razorback who stood languidly by, what followed was not particularly startling, not even to be suspected. For Schmidt merely stopped where he was and appeared to be offended, which was not unusual. Little Tom Little was apparently eagerly seeking to say something to the ringmaster. But the two did not exchange a word. The midget’s mouth moved as though he talked to himself, and Schmidt looked popeyed at such effrontery and, immediately after, somewhat blank. This was the only thing that the razorback remarked. Schmi
dt had never looked anything but severe in all circus knowledge. But after an instant of this, Schmidt—getting a grip on himself, it seemed—glanced down to take delighted inventory of his dress. And Little Tom Little, so it appeared, was nothing but disturbed by his own garb. Thereupon Schmidt, swinging his crop and again in a grandiose humor, strolled on his way, and the midget, starting to run after, noticed the razorback and moved wonderingly into the shadow of the deserted sideshow tent. . . .

  After the first shock of the transition was over, Little Tom Little felt very much like a bean in a bass drum. When he took a step, he went about four times as far as he thought he should have gone, a fact which occasioned his stumbling over a guy rope and almost losing his dignity in the lap of Matilda, the World’s Fattest Woman. He bowed with great difficulty and again misgauged his distance, almost knocking out his brains against a wagon side, so much further had he gone than he had expected.

  Feeling embarrassed, he made off. Every day for years he had seen Matilda, and always she had reserved a large smile for him and perhaps some cookies—quite as though she mistook him for a mischievous little boy. And though always he had resented being looked on as a boy, he had never failed to enjoy either the cookies or the smile. But now Matilda looked sober and alarmed, and she had not spoken a word.

  It was uncomfortable to feel, suddenly, that he was outside the scope of her kindness. And when he came to consider it, he realized that people were not unkind to him—had never been truly unkind to Little Tom Little.

  Well! He was not Little Tom Little anymore. He was Hermann Schmidt, the World’s Greatest Ringmaster, Lord and Master of Johnson’s Super Shows. And what if he did underestimate the length of his step and knock his hat against things he had always found far above him—he would get used to that! And what of Schmidt himself? Tommy had always been insanely jealous of that man’s lofty position. Let Schmidt find out how the world looked from a midget’s eye, and mend his ways accordingly!

  Having kicked ’em, the troupers were streaming back from town, sweaty and cross and hungry, anxious to get rested before the afternoon show.

  Standing in the entrance of the big top, Tommy—as Schmidt—watched them pass. Because he knew that Schmidt always did so, he assumed a somewhat critical air and bowed very seldom. It came to him with a slight shock that the people did not fall over themselves to notice him, and when they did, there were scowls.

  It was a jarring experience to the ex-midget to be scowled upon, for in all his trouping he had never had anything but smiles for greeting.

  Well, a fellow had to sacrifice something for his position, didn’t he?

  And yet there was an empty feeling in his soul, and a growing fright that maybe the world suspected something.

  Had Maizie talked?

  Had the Professor boasted before his death?

  But no, these frowns were not accusative. These people thought they looked upon Hermann Schmidt, Ringmaster. They scowled because they were tired, that was all.

  Jerry Gordon, riding in a wagon with Old Bab, his pet lion, had removed his sun hat to swab at its band when he caught sight of Schmidt. His scowl was deeper, and so filled with suspicion that Tommy was frightened. Gordon had always been the midget’s friend, for all Tommy’s hatred of cats. The question was, what did Gordon know? Why did he stop wiping out his hat and frown so heavily that he forgot what his hands were doing?

  Tommy wished he had taken station anywhere but here. He felt that these people were looking straight through Schmidt—the body of Schmidt—and seeing Little Tom Little, and were all ready to fall upon him en masse and eat him up.

  Betty, the high-wire artist, riding a bull’s howdy, looked strangely at Schmidt as she went by. There was some kind of warning, though a reluctant one, in her expression. And Little Tom Little, who had always secretly adored and respected both the girl and her skill, read some distaste in her glance as well. Plainly, though, she was trying to give him a message, and a disquieting one at that.

  It was all a puzzle to the ex-midget but, overestimating his stride in an attempt to compensate, he again discovered his size and appearance and took heart.

  What the devil! Wasn’t he Schmidt, the great Schmidt? Ringmaster of the Johnson Super Shows? Yes! No longer a midget, small enough to be trod under every foot, but a big person, and one of the greatest ringmasters in the world! They were afraid of Schmidt, that was it. Schmidt was their master, and now . . . now, ah! Wasn’t he Schmidt?

  Crossing the lot, he heard a voice call, “Hermann!” in sweet accents. It was repeated several times, for he was not yet used to the name. Finally he realized that the call was for himself and he turned with a mimicry of Schmidt’s reserved air.

  Mrs. Johnson had always been ready to laugh at Little Tom Little’s jokes, and now, when he saw her regarding him from her tent entrance with a very much different manner, he had to recollect himself very fast to keep from being startled. As yet he had not had to speak to anyone, and he was frightened at the prospect, lest his somewhat midgetish voice would betray him. With a guilty manner altogether quite foreign to the true Schmidt, he approached her.

  Additional dismay came over him when he found that he was expected to make the opening remark. He recollected himself and twirled his mustache as he had seen Schmidt do so often, his eyes on the sky.

  “I think,” he said with careful judging, “that we will have a very fine crowd today.”

  “Hermann—”

  Tommy was alarmed now. “And the acts seem to be in fine shape. I guess if every show we had was as promising as this one, we’d all be rich in no time.”

  There came a change in her aged face and he welcomed it. “Things have been like this for the whole season without our getting anything but poorer. Have you some good news of some sort?”

  “Ah . . . well . . . you never can tell,” he said vaguely.

  “You’re holding something back!” said Mrs. Johnson with a kittenish air which accused him of teasing her.

  Tommy regretted he had brought the matter to the front. “No. Honest, I didn’t mean anything. It’s just going to be a good day, I guess. Maybe,” he added brightly, “maybe I better be getting over to the big top to make sure everything is going all right.”

  She looked startled, but he moved away too fast to be stopped.

  “Hmm,” said Mrs. Johnson suspiciously.

  Tommy felt unsettled. He ran a clammy hand over the unaccustomed bushiness of his physiognomy. In the protection of a snack stand, he seated himself upon a box and tried to collect his thoughts. The things he had begun to find out about Hermann Schmidt were not at all quieting, and though he had already begun to regret his swap, there was still too much glamour in the thought of being a ringmaster not to give the thing a thorough try. After all, he could last long enough to crack his whip in the main event, and after that he could let fate take its course.

  Mealtime had robbed the lot of its attendants for the moment and so he sat on, waiting for something else to happen. For thought food, he used the fact that the attendants had been getting thin. That had been news, for pay had been regular enough. It amused him the next moment to think that he—Schmidt—would be the one to know the most about such affairs.

  Presently the lot began to be popular once more and, feeling conspicuous, he started to move off, wondering where he should go, until it occurred to him that the white wagon, after all, was his. However, his few minutes of rest had spotted him, and promptly he was surrounded by men who had problems to be solved.

  Although he had the routine of sawdust land at his fingertips, it made him very uncomfortable to be called upon for so many decisions at once. Joe Middler was taking too much “strawberry shortcake.” His shill wasn’t getting a long enough string of coconuts. The pup opera was minus its canine star, who had wandered too near a gravedigger’s cage, and it was either a new mutt or a dead hyena. The payoff was too high on a juice joint, and if John Law objected to the kife, what else could a guy do but howl? A
kinker had a twisted wrist, and he figured Bill had had it in for ’im anyway since that dame in St. Looie had shown good sense, and he wasn’t goin’ to get a broken neck over any fool dame!

  Tommy dispensed justice as best he could, and twice he turned down out-and-out bribes for a decision, much to the astonishment of the would-be bribers.

  When things were at last settled and the show was in order, spots had begun and the place was humming with thistle chins. The spielers were clowning the come-in to what appeared to be a great crowd. People from far and near were already milling near the marquee and, all in all, it was a bright, hot, sweaty, dusty circus day, with bawling barkers all snarled up with the yelping horse piano and the jig band, and the constant hum of pleased suckers, with an undertone of lions’ roars and clacking wheels.

  Tommy felt better. This was his element, and of this element he was now king. So delighted was he at the thought of at last snapping the lash in the hoople to the admiration of all, that he quite forgot to think at all of what was happening to himself, erstwhile Little Tommy Little, now Hermann Schmidt—in the flesh at least.

  But Schmidt had not forgotten anything, even in the soul-shattering experience of all of a sudden watching himself flick his crop and walk away, leaving behind a man less than thirty inches high.

  Schmidt’s first impulse had been to dash after himself, crying out for help. But his coldly logical brain had told him that he would look very silly doing so. For Schmidt, as always, had sized up the situation as a purely abstract problem and was determined to solve it the best he could.

  In the dusty emptiness of the sideshow tent, he had brought himself into a full realization of his strange and very disturbing predicament. In the Black Forest of his native land, he had heard such things had happened and, so far as he could tell, no kind fate had come along immediately to undo them. And the longer he measured his slightness up against his surroundings, the more he became convinced of the awfulness of his situation and the need to do something about it.

  Schmidt recognized clearly that this extraordinary situation might well lead to an exposition of his former self. Therefore it behooved him, as soon as possible, to obtain the neat cache he had made and wipe out all existing records and letters now in his safe. This done, he would be less apprehensive and could, if necessary, grab a red light and be gone, though now merely a midget, with his gains, leaving the usurper of his true body to face the music.