Part I Chapter 5 Doctor Dolittle's Circus by Hugh Lofting
THE DOCTOR IS DISCOURAGED
The Doctor found that two of the strong man's ribs had been broken by the dumb-bell. However, he prophesied that with so powerful a constitution the patient should recover quickly. The injured man was put to bed in his own caravan and until he was well again the Doctor visited him four times a day and Matthew slept in his wagon to nurse him.
The strong man (his show name was Hercules) was very thankful to John Dolittle and became greatly attached to him--and very useful sometimes, as you will see later on.
So the Doctor felt, when he went to bed that first night of his circus career, that if he had made an enemy in Fatima, the snake charmer, he had gained a friend in Hercules, the strong man.
Of course, now that he had been recognized as the odd physician of Puddleby-on-the-Marsh, there was no longer any sense in his trying to conceal who he was. And very soon he became known among the circus folk as just "the Doctor"--or "the Doc." On the very high recommendation of Hercules, he was constantly called upon for the cure of small ailments by everyone, from the bearded lady to the clown.
The next day, the pushmi-pullyu was put on show for the first time. He was very popular. A two-headed animal had never before been seen in a circus and the people thronged up to pay their money and have a look at him. At first he nearly died of embarrassment and shyness, and he was forever hiding one of his heads under the straw so as not to have to meet the gaze of all those staring eyes. Then the people wouldn't believe he had more than one head. So the Doctor asked him if he would be so good as to keep both of them in view.
"You need not look at the people," he said. "But just let them see that you really have two heads. You can turn your back on the audience--both ends."
But some of the silly people, even when they could see the two heads plainly, kept saying that one must be faked. And they would prod the poor, timid animal with sticks to see if part of him was stuffed. While two country bumpkins were doing this one day the pushmi-pullyu got annoyed, and bringing both his heads up sharply at the same time, he jabbed the two inquirers in the legs. Then they knew for sure that he was real and alive all over.
But as soon as the Cat's-Meat-Man could be spared from nursing Hercules (he turned the job over to his wife) the Doctor put him on guard inside the stall to see that the animal was not molested by stupid visitors. The poor creature had a terrible time those first days. But when Jip told him how much money was being taken in, he determined to stick it out for John Dolittle's sake. And after a little while, although his opinion of the human race sank very low, he got sort of used to the silly, gaping faces of his audiences and gazed back at them--from both his heads--with fearless superiority and the scorn that they deserved.
During show hours the Doctor used to sit in a chair on the front platform, taking the sixpences and smiling on the people as they went in--for all the world as though every one of them were old friends visiting his home. And, in fact, he did in this way re-meet many folks who had known him in years gone by, including the old lady with rheumatism, Squire Jenkyns and neighbors from Puddleby.
Poor Dab-Dab was busier than ever now. For in addition to the housekeeping duties she always had to keep one eye on the Doctor; and many were the scoldings she gave him because he would let the children in for nothing when she wasn't looking.
At the end of each day Blossom, the manager, came to divide up the money. And Too-Too, the mathematician, was always there when the adding was done, to see that the Doctor got his proper share.
Although the pushmi-pullyu was so popular, the Doctor saw very early in his new career that it would take quite a time to earn sufficient money to pay the sailor back for the boat--let alone to make enough for himself and his family to live on besides.
He was rather sorry about this; for there were a lot of things in the circus business that he did not like and he was anxious to leave it. While his own show was a perfectly honest affair, there were many features of the circus that were faked; and the Doctor, who always hated fake of any kind, had an uncomfortable feeling that he was part of an establishment not strictly honest. Most of the gambling games were arranged so that those who played them were bound to lose their money.
But the thing that worried the Doctor most was the condition of the animals. Their life, he felt, was in most cases an unhappy one. At the end of his first day with the circus, after the crowds have gone home and all was quiet in the enclosure, he had gone back into the menagerie and talked to the animals there. They nearly all had complaints to make: their cages were not kept properly clean; they did not get exercise or room enough; with some the food served was not the kind they liked.
The Doctor heard them all and was so indignant he sought out the ringmaster in his private caravan right away and told him plainly of all the things he thought ought to be changed.
Blossom listened patiently until he had finished and then he laughed.
"Why, Doc," said he, "if I was to do all the things you want me to I might as well leave the business! I'd be ruined. What, pension off the horses? Send the hurri-gurri back to his home? Keep the men cleaning out the cages all day? Buy special foods? Have the animals took out for walks every day, like a young lady's academy? Man, you must be crazy! Now, look here: You don't know anything about this game--nothing, see? I've given in to you in all you asked. I'm letting you run your part of the show your own way. But I'm going to run the rest of it my way. Understand? I don' want no interference. It's bad enough to have the strong man on the sick list. I ain't going to go broke just to please your Sunday school ideas. And that's flat."
Sad at heart, the Doctor left the manager's quarters and made his way across to his own caravan. On the steps of his wagon, he found the Cat's-Meat-Man smoking his evening pipe. Close by, Beppo, the old horse, was cropping the scrubby grass of the enclosure by the light of the moon.
"Nice night," said Matthew. "You look kind of worried, Doctor. Anything wrong?"
"Yes," said John Dolittle, sitting down miserably on the steps beside him. "Everything's wrong. I've just been talking to Blossom about improving conditions in the menagerie. He won't do a single thing I ask. I think I'll leave the circus."
"Oh, come now," said Matthew. 'Why, you ain't hardly begun, Doctor! Blossom doesn't know yet that you can talk animal language even! Circuses don't have to be bad. You could run one that would be a new kind; clean, honest, special--one that everybody in the world come to see. But you got to get money first. Don't give up so easy."
"No, it's no use, Matthew. I'm doing no good here and I can't stay and see animals unhappy. I never should have gone into the business."
At this moment the old horse, Beppo, hearing his friend's voice, drew near and pushed his muzzle affectionately into the Doctor's ear.
"Hulloa," said John Dolittle. "Beppo, I'm afraid I can be of no help to you. I'm sorry--but I am going to leave the circus."
"But, Doctor," said the old horse, "you're our one hope. Why, only to-day I heard the elephant and the Talking Horse--the cob who performs in the big show--they were saying how glad they were that you had come. Be patient. You can't change everything in a minute. If you go, then we'll never get anything we want. But we know that if you stay, before long you will be running the whole show the way it should be run. We're not worried as long as you're with us. Only stay. And mark my words, the day will come when the new circus, 'The Dolittle Circus,' will be the greatest on earth."
For a moment the Doctor was silent. And Matthew, who had not understood the conversation with the horse, waited impatiently for him to speak.
At last he arose and turned to go into the caravan.
"Well," said the Cat's-Meat-Man anxiously, "are you going to stay?"
"Yes, Matthew," said the Doctor. "It seems I've got to. Good night."
At the end of that week the Grimbledon Fair was over and the circus had to move on to the next town. It was a big job, this packing up a large show for a long journey by road. And all day Sunday the enclosure was a very busy place. Men ran around everywhere shouting orders. The big tent and the little tents were pulled down and rolled up. The stands were taken apart and piled into wagons. The large space that had looked so gay was quickly changed into a drab, untidy mess. It was all very new to the Doctor's pets; and though Dab-Dab joined in the general hustle of packing, the rest of them enjoyed the excitement and the newness of it no end.
One thing that amused them very much was the change in the appearance of the performers when they got out of their circus dress to travel. Gub-Gub was very confused, because he couldn't recognize anybody any more. The clown took the white paint off his face. The Princess Fatima laid aside her gorgeous garments and appeared like a respectable charwoman ready for a holiday. The Wild Man of Borneo put on a collar and tie and talked quite naturally. And the Bearded Lady took off her beard, folded it up and packed it in a trunk.
Then in a long procession of caravans the circus set out upon the road. The next town to be visited was fifty miles off. This journey could not, of course, be covered in a single day, going at a walk. The nights were to be spent camping out by the roadside or in whatever convenient clear spaces could be found. So, beside the new amusement of seeing the country by day from a home on wheels, the animals had the thrill of spending the nights gypsy-fashion, wherever darkness found them. Jip got lots of fun chasing the rats out of the ditches along the road and often going off across a meadow on the scent of a fox. The slowness of the circus's pace gave him time for all sorts of small adventures; and he could always catch up. But Gub-Gub's chief delight was guessing where they would spend the night.
This part of the life, the halting for sleep, seemed to be enjoyed by all. When the kettle was put on to boil over the roadside fire every one cheered up and got talkative. Jip's two friends, the clown's dog and Toby, the Punch-and-Judy dog, always came around as soon as the procession stopped for the night, and joined the Doctor's party. They, too, seemed to be much in favor of John Dolittle's taking charge of the show or running a circus of his own. And when they weren't amusing the family circle with wonderful stories of a show-dog's life they kept telling the Doctor that a real Dolittle Circus would, to their way of thinking, be a perfect institution.
John Dolittle had always said that there were just as many different characters and types among dogs as there were among people-- in fact, more. He had written a book to prove this. He called it Dog Psychology. Most metaphysicians had pooh-poohed it, saying that no one but a hair-brain would write on such a subject. But this was only to hide the fact that they couldn't understand it.
Certainly these two, Swizzle, the clown's dog, and Toby, the Punch-and-Judy dog, had very different personalities. Swizzle (to look at, he was nothing but a common mongrel) had a great sense of humor. He made a joke out of everything. This may have been partly on account of his profession--helping a clown make people laugh. But it was also part of his philosophy. He told both the Doctor and Jip more than once that when he was still a puppy he had decided that nothing in this world was worth taking seriously. He was a great artist, nevertheless, and could always see the most difficult jokes--even when they were made at his own expense.
It was Swizzle's sense of humor that gave the Doctor the idea for the first comic papers printed for animals--when later he founded the Rat-and-Mouse Club. They were called Cellar Life and Basement Humor and were intended to bring light entertainment to those who live in dark places.
Toby, the other, was as different from his friend Swizzle as it is possible to be. He was a small dog, a dwarf white poodle. And he took himself and life quite seriously. The most noticeable thing about his character was his determination to get everything which he thought he ought to get. Yet he was not selfish, not at all. The Doctor always said that this shrewd business-like quality was to be found in most little dogs--who had to make up for their small size by an extra share of cheek. The very first time Toby came visiting to John Dolittle's caravan he got on the Doctor's bed and made himself comfortable. Dab-Dab, highly scandalized, tried to put him off. But he wouldn't move. He said the Doctor didn't seem to mind and he was the owner of the bed. And from that time on he always occupied this place in the caravan's evening circle when he came to visit. He had won a special privilege for himself by sheer cheek. He was always demanding privileges, and he usually got them.
But there was one thing, in which Toby and Swizzle were alike; and that was the pride they took in their personal friendship with John Dolittle, whom they considered the greatest man on earth.
One night on the first trip between towns the procession had stopped by the side of the road as usual. There was a nice old-fashioned farm quite near and Gub-Gub had gone off to see if there were any pigs in the stye. Otherwise the Doctor's family circle was complete. And soon after the kettle had been put on to boil along came Toby and Swizzle. The night was cool; so, instead of making a fire outside, Dab-Dab was using the stove in the caravan, and everybody was sitting around it chatting.
"Have you heard the news, Doctor?" said Toby, jumping up on the bed.
"No," said John Dolittle. "What is it?"
"At the next town--Ashby, you know, quite a large place--we are to pick up Sophie."
"Who in the world is Sophie?" asked the Doctor, getting out his slippers from behind the stove.
"She left us before you joined," said Swizzle. "Sophie's the performing seal--balances balls on her nose and does tricks in the water. She fell sick and Blossom had to leave her behind about a month ago. She's all right now, though, and her keeper is meeting us at Ashby so she can join us again. She's rather a sentimental sort of girl, is Sophie. But she's a good sport, and I'm sure you will like her."
The circus reached Ashby about nine o'clock on a Wednesday evening. It was to open to the public the first thing the following morning. So all through that night, by the light of flares, the men were busy hoisting tents, setting up booths, and spreading tanbark. Even after the pushmi-pullyu's stand was put together and the Doctor's family retired to rest, no one got any sleep; for the ground still shook with the hammers driving pegs; and the air was full of shouts and the spirits of work, till the dusk of dawn crept over the roofs of Ashby and showed the city of canvas that had been built in a night.
John Dolittle decided, as he climbed wearily from his sleepless bed that circus life took a lot of getting used to. After breakfast, leaving Matthew in charge of his stand, he set out to make the acquaintance of the performing seal.