Clown of Clowns
Jerry was so surprised that he almost forgot that he had been cheated out of his ticket to the circus, and he stopped crying except for a long shuddering sob every now and then, though the tears stood on his cheeks.
The clown looked at him long and steadily; finally he made a little squeaky noise with his mouth, and then opened his lips as though laughing, but did not utter a sound. His mouth seemed to keep broadening in a hearty laugh until Jerry thought it would really touch his ears. It was such a good-natured grin and his eyes twinkled so that Jerry smiled ever so little.
At that little smile the clown's silent laugh suddenly disappeared and with that funny little squeak in his mouth, which Jerry knew meant joy in spite of its being nothing but a squeak, he jumped suddenly to his feet and turned a series of handsprings around in a circle, kicking his heels in the air and ending up just where he started, directly in front of Jerry, squatting down on the ground, with elbow on knee, chin in hand, looking intently into Jerry's eyes.
The clown's lips were very sober in spite of the general laughableness of his face, but as he kept looking at Jerry a smile started right at the corners of his mouth and then disappeared. That smile seemed to be waiting for encouragement, for after a time it started up again and followed the clown's lips almost to the center of his mouth. It didn't get quite that far, however, but raced quickly back to the corners of his mouth, as though in disappointment, and disappeared.
Then a remarkable change came over the clown's face. The corners of his mouth began to droop and his eyes to close. Jerry thought he was going to cry. His shoulders hunched forward until the clown was the most forlorn looking object Jerry had almost ever seen. The corners of his mouth kept going down and down until they nearly touched his chin.
Jerry kept fascinated eyes on that chalky white face with the very, very red lips. It was the drollest expression of grief he had ever seen, and a smile began to play about his own lips.
That tentative smile on Jerry's part brought another sudden and remarkable change over the clown's countenance. He began that silent laugh again and it grew and it grew until the face was all a huge grin. Jerry found himself grinning out of pure, contagious sympathy.
Then the clown laughed harder than ever, still without making a sound, and held his sides as though he had laughed so hard that they ached. He emitted one short, little staccato laugh and stopped suddenly, as if he were waiting to see if Jerry liked the sound before continuing with it.
Jerry did like it and laughed out loud himself.
The clown's face was all changed at that laugh of Jerry's and became so comically still and sorrowful that Jerry laughed harder. Then the clown started laughing out loud, holding his sides until it became a laughing duet between them.
Jerry was happy again. He had forgotten all about Danny's perfidy and the tears of Celia Jane and the stolen "ticket to paradise."
The clown's features suddenly fell calm and he jumped to his feet and pirouetted on his heels with little graceful leaps in the air, as though he were light as a feather and going to take flight. Jerry was sure that that was the clown's way of rejoicing at having made him laugh.
Then the clown was suddenly sitting in front of Jerry again. "So you've found the secret," he remarked in a very human and pleasant voice.
"What secret?" asked Jerry.
The clown whispered in his ear, "The secret of laughter."
"The secret of laughter?" repeated Jerry wonderingly.
"Shush!" warned Whiteface, looking cautiously about. "Don't let anybody know you've found it till it's had time to get used to you. It might like somebody else better and leave you for that somebody else, though I don't see how the secret of laughter could like anybody better than you. You're such a brave little boy."
"What will the secret of laughter do?" Jerry asked in a low tone.
"It will make you happy," replied Whiteface. "Nothing is as bad as you think it is if only you can keep the secret of laughter at your side. It will make you forget your sorrow and laugh and laugh till the sorrow slinks away."
"Never to come back?" asked Jerry.
The clown's mouth drooped again and his shoulders sunk forward.
"That's the tragedy of it," he said. "Sorrow takes such a firm hold on us sometimes, especially when one is grown up, that it comes back even after the secret of laughter has driven it away. But it is different with children; with them the secret of laughter almost always drives sorrow away for good and all and leaves them happy."
"How can it make them happy?" asked Jerry.
"By making them forget."
"Forget what?" pursued Jerry, puzzled.
"What made them cry," responded the clown, "as you have."
Then his face clouded and his white, chalky brows frowned.
"You have forgotten, haven't you?" he asked eagerly.
"Y-y-yes," replied Jerry, "almost."
"Almost!" exclaimed Whiteface, very much disappointed. "Then it has come back if you haven't forgotten it altogether. I wonder what it can be if the secret of laughter can't drive it away?"
He looked up so questioningly that Jerry responded at once. "It's Celia Jane."
It was the clown's turn to be surprised.
"Celia Jane!" he exclaimed. "Cupid starts in so young nowadays!"
"It was not Cupid," said Jerry, who had no more idea than the man in the moon who or what Cupid might be.
"No?" said the clown. "That's good! What did Celia Jane do?"
"She cried."
"Was that what you were crying for—because Celia Jane cried?"
"No," Jerry answered. "I gave her my ticket to the circus which I got for carryin' water for the el'funts."
"Ah!" said the clown. "She cried to get your ticket so she could see the circus herself. I see."
"No! She gave my ticket to Danny," pursued Jerry, and his grief was coming back so rapidly that he felt his lips begin twisting again.
"And Danny went to the circus in your place?" questioned the clown. "And the crocodile tears of Celia Jane made you shed so many real ones!"
"Celia Jane always does what Danny wants her to," continued Jerry.
"It was very naughty of her!" said the clown. "And Danny should be spoken to."
"Will you speak to him?" asked Jerry. "Then mebbe he'll give me my ticket back."
"I don't know Danny," replied the clown, "but I'll probably think up a way to get you into the circus even if you don't have a ticket."
"Oh, can you?" cried Jerry excitedly. He got to his feet and in his eagerness put an arm over Whiteface's shoulder.
"I'm sure I can if I think very hard," returned the clown.
"You will think very hard, won't you? Please."
"Oh, awfully hard," replied Whiteface. "But don't you worry. The secret of laughter made your grief slink away for good. But I must know your name. It will help me to think."
"Jerry Elbow," replied Jerry promptly.
"Well, Jerry Elbow," said the clown, "now I'll think. You may watch me think, but don't say anything, as I might get to thinking your thoughts, and if our thoughts get crossed there's no telling what would happen."
"I won't," Jerry promised.
The clown put his chin in his hand, palm out so that his thumb and forefinger half encircled his face, and began slowly rolling his head from side to side. Then with the forefinger of his other hand he tapped the top of his head slowly several times.
"Think!" he commanded his own head. "Here's a very small boy that you can make very happy. Think of a way to do it. Think!"
Jerry sat down again and watched him eagerly, holding on to himself to keep from speaking and getting their thoughts mixed up.
Every emotion pictured on the clown's mobile face was reflected on Jerry's. When the clown brightened as though he felt the thought coming that would provide a means for getting Jerry into the circus, Jerry's face likewise brightened. But when Whiteface slumped down into the most discouraged attitude in the world, Jerry knew that that idea wouldn't do and the corners of his own mouth drooped and, unconsciously, he rested his chin in the palm of his hand just as the clown did and despair made him huddle down in a heap.
All of a sudden the clown made a clicking noise with his tongue and his figure began to straighten up and his face to lighten until it was all smiles. Jerry bounded to his feet. He forgot all about Whiteface's caution not to speak and cried:
"Have you got it? Did the thought come?"
"Yes!" cried the clown. "I'll buy you a ticket!"
"Will you?" exclaimed Jerry. "Will you?"
"Yes, here's the money," and Whiteface reached for his pocket. His hand kept sliding down his loose, blue-spotted, white costume, but did not enter into any pocket.
"Can't you find your pocket?" asked Jerry fearfully.
"I had one this morning," replied the clown solemnly, "and there was money in it—enough to buy you a ticket to the circus and more, but now I don't seem to be able to find it. You don't see a pocket on me, do you, Jerry Elbow?"
Jerry went close and walked all about the clown. There was not a sign of a pocket and he began to feel dreadfully disappointed.
"There ain't no pocket," he said sorrowfully.
"Then there must be some pocket. If there ain't no pocket, there must be a pocket somewhere. If you had said there is no pocket it would be so. Look again."
Jerry looked carefully, more and more sorrowfully.
"There is no pocket," he said at last in a voice that was trembly, all ready to cry.
"That's funny," said the clown. "I know there was one this morning because I used some of the money that was in it." He sank into thought for a moment and then looked suddenly at Jerry.
"I know why we can't find a pocket!" cried he. "While I was thinking very hard of a way to get you into the circus and almost had the thought, you said, 'Have you got it? Did the thought come?' Now, didn't you?"
The appalling truth burst upon Jerry. He had spoiled Whiteface's thought by interrupting and their thoughts had got mixed.
"I didn't know I was going to," he said. "I tried so hard not to."
"And didn't you think that it would take only fifty cents to buy a ticket?" asked the clown.
"Yes," Jerry miserably admitted.
"That's it!" exclaimed the clown. "That's what mixed my thoughts all up with yours. I was trying to think of a way to get you in without any money. Then, when our thoughts got mixed, I began thinking of the ordinary way of getting into a circus by buying a ticket."
"Can't you think again?" Jerry pleaded in a very contrite voice. "I will keep still this time. I will!"
Just as he spoke a band inside the tent started playing. It was so near him that he was startled, and jumped.
"The circus is about to begin," said the clown. "The band is playing for the parade. I must think quickly so you won't miss any of it."
There was no need of warning Jerry not to say anything this time. He would have said nothing if he had seen the clown turn into an elephant. It was an awful hard thought to think, for the clown stretched out on the ground right close to the tent and looked under the canvas. Then he rolled over, sat up and wagged his head solemnly at Jerry.
"I've got it!" he cried and bounded to his feet and jumped clear over Jerry's head.
"I didn't say nothing this time!" boasted Jerry. "I didn't say nothing this time!"
"No," said the clown, "you didn't and our thoughts didn't all get mixed up."
"Will I get in before it starts?" asked Jerry.
"Yes, or my name's not Jack Robinson," said the clown.
"Is that your name?" asked Jerry.
"Only to-day," replied the clown. "To-morrow it may be Tom, Dick or Harry."
"Robinson?" questioned Jerry.
"Or Smith or Kettlewell," replied the clown, smiling. "Now you must do just what I tell you to and do it quickly."
"I will," promised Jerry.
"Shut your eyes. Are they shut?"
"Yes," said Jerry, closing them so tight that he saw funny little green and red and purple streaks of light.
"Keep them shut. Don't open them once till I tap you on the back twice. Then you count to twenty, and if I don't tap you on the back again, open your eyes and you will be in the circus. Then you walk right ahead till you come to the first row of seats where there will be a lot of children and you just pick out any empty seat you see and sit there. Do you understand?"
"Yes," replied Jerry.
"Eyes shut," commanded the clown. "Come with me."
He led Jerry quite a distance away from the tent, Jerry thought, and then had him sit down on the ground so that the clown was directly behind him.
"Now," said Whiteface, "you are going to be carried into the circus, but don't open your eyes till I tap twice on your back and you have counted to twenty."
"I won't," promised Jerry.
"If you see me in the circus," said the clown, "you can speak to me if you want to. No, don't open your eyes."
For Jerry, in his eagerness to assure Whiteface that he would speak to him if he saw him in the circus, was about to look up at him. For fear that he yet might do so, he shut his eyes tighter, till they hurt, and covered them with both hands.
"Lean over," whispered the clown, "close to the ground."
As he did so, Jerry felt his forehead brush something that felt exactly like the canvas of a tent.
"Now," said the clown, "good-by till you speak to me in the circus."
"Good-by," whispered Jerry in a daze of delight and mystery.
He heard a swishing sound and then felt the clown push him along on the ground. A moment later he felt two thumps on his back and he started in to count. He reached twenty without feeling another thump and opened his eyes.
