THE OLD GRAFTER’S LAMENT.
The Old Grafter had corns on his knuckles from holding greenbacks between his fingers.
He looked a trifle seedy about the costume, but his moustache was waxed—the moustache, too, was dyed and you saw the reason when he took his hat off. The Old Grafter wore a celluloid collar and a polka dotted dickey, and when his vest was opened it showed up the shyness of his linen.
The Concert Manager was springing gossip about the principal clown who was having trouble with his wife who did the iron jaw swing. He saw the Old Grafter coming across the ring and he stopped, for it was pretty well known that old-timer wouldn’t stand for scandal. The Old Grafter bit off enough tobacco from the canvasman’s plug to make a comfortable quid and then sat down on the snake box. He was looking sad and there was silence. Presently he sent a splash of juice up against the center pole and after shifting the quid he opened up.
“Say fellers, I’ve been cuttin’ the cards since John Robinson had money in tent shows an’ I’ve come to the verdict, it’s this—when you’ve got the green in your pocket an’ the suckers is tipped off they’ll crowd you as thick as flies on the popcorn pile, but when there ain’t no coin to jingle you kin get so lonesome that you’ll go to bed with a hot water bot’l for company.”
This bit of wisdom impressed the gang, for no one spoke, and the Old Grafter threw his reversing bar and chinned out this—
“The old days is gone an’ they’s left the circus graft on a weedy sidin’ with no roun’ trips back to the lan’ of promise. Them was the one ring days an’ in them times there was allus fodder for the hogs. Today it’s one ring, two rings, three rings and a stage—the biggest tent on earth, but for the grafter—nothin’, nothin’. Me, what use to turn the shank of the week with a bigger wad than the principal bareback gets, me makes today a dirty twenty on percentage an’ sellin’ reserved seats. I’m ashamed to look the old days in the face. Why say in them days many a time the proprietor of the Big Show was touchin’ the grafter for cash when business was bad an’ today so diff’rent, so diff’rent—if I gets into a poker play on the train an’ the ante’s a nickel I’ve got to reach twice to find the coin. If I’d had the good sense what’s in Bill McGinnis head I’d a bought a little road tavern like he did twenty years ago an’ I’d a-had a bank book roostin’ back of the bar. But I thinks there’s still somethin’ doin’ my end an’ I waits an’ loses—and what do I get—a couple of treasuries and some change at the pay off durin’ the season with crackers and cheese for me an’ the old woman in the winter. It’s the diff’rence ’tween horse radish an’ saw dust an’ its got me slippin’ back.
“I’ll tell you fellers somethin’ ’bout the old days. ’Twas ’bout ’76 an’ we was graftin’ with a one ring outfit. We struck good crops and sunny weather in the one nighters in the Ohio valley. The farmers had money an’ there was peaches in the orchard for every boy with the troup that had a bag of tricks. Everybody was standin’ in on the graft an’ we had a fixer two days ahead so there’d be no call. We was carryin’ a car with the lay out an’ four tin horns that was science on faro and turnin’ the wheel. The big game was invited to the car an’ there was allus a set out an’ sumthin’ to drink. The little fish was worked on the lot an’ there was days, many days when the graft was mor’n the ticket wagon count up, an’ the rake off was loafin’ ’bout par, continuous. Good days them, me boys, for ev’ry body from the boss of the outfit down to the stake driver. Money was comin’ easy an’ when there was any protestin’ on the part of the patrons an’ it got to fists, or gun play we passed along the Hey Rube an’ there was Gettysburg till mornin’ if they was lookin’ for battle.
“The best burg we hit was a lit’l settlement where we had a two mile haul up the pike from track to lot. Everything was ripe for graftin’ an’ we was ready for harvest. Seems like a reform committee had to hit down all the games and the folks was hungry for gamlin’. The posters in No. 1 car piped us off on conditions an’ it was said that them paste spreaders traveled off with a roll from stud polker in the car after the bills was on the stands.
“They wuz on the lots waitin’ for us when the boss landed to lay off the pitch for the round top, we wuz only usin’ one then an’ had no an’mals to speak of. The fakirs got in the game early an’ transparent cards from gay Paree was the first bait and bitin’ was good. ’Fore the parade started all hands was busy on the lot takin’ care of the games an’ say the farmers had it with ’em in rolls. The foxy boy in the ticket wagon has all his bad coin ready and the constable with the badge has been fixed with a ten to see there’s no argument when short change is handed out.
“Oh! we worked systematic them days.
“Well, say, before the band had struck up the grand march for the entree gold bricks wuz sellin’ like cod fish cakes at a nigger camp meetin’ an’ the boys what was workin’ the shells had to lay off to get the stiffness out’er their fingers.
“I hates to tell it, I hates to tell it in the days there’s nothing’ doin’.
“You see I was cappin’ for the boss of the show an’ say that day keeps me busier than a man drivin’ sheep. The outfit was gettin’ thirty-five per cent. of the graft an’ if the partic’lar grafter who was gettin’ the coin failed to come up we se’ed that he was prop’ly turned over to the off’cers of the law an’ we did the prosecutin’ on the groun’ that we was runnin’ a strictly moral show. Say, while I was watchin’, a farmer with a bunch of weeds under his chin an’ a face like a quince comes up to me an’ makes a holler. Somebody had touched him for his wad ’fore he could get to the games an’ he was dead sore. I se’ed that he was goin’ to make trouble so I remembers that his wagon is standin’ in the dirt road by the lot. I gives a stakeman the tip he kicks the off bay in the flanks an’ there’s a runaway. The corn cutter chases after his team an’ forgits that he ever had a roll.
“An’ say at night down in the car the air was hot. The tin horns was busy and coin was droppin’ like rotten apples in a mill race. The boys what was dealin’ the faro had monkeyed with the deck an’ it was far to the bad for the spenders. ’Bout time to start haulin’ for the cars two burly boys begins to talk fight an’ it looks like Hey Rube all aroun’. One sticks his knuckles into me face an’ I says to him sort’er fierce like.
“Say, young fellow, if youse lookin’ for fight I’ll git one of the boys to stick his teeth in your neck an’ you’ll change your mind.
“There was no gun playin’ but there was a lot of chinnin’ and cussin’ but we finally gets the tin horns out an’ starts ’em up the road to the first section. The gang is hot after us an’ there was only one thing saved us. Jes’ as the crowd was closin’ in I sees the tiger den with the two blacks pullin’ it comin’ over the hill. I chases forward to the trainer an’ when the cage gits up close we jes’ shoves them two tin horn dealers in the den with the tigers an’ saves their lives.”
“Never could make a return date there, could you, Bill?” asked the Boss Canvasman as he made one of the spotted coach dogs take a jump through his hands.
“Return date, well I should reckon. Went back there in two months an’ still foun’ ’em ripe. But there was only one way to do it. The Boss had to paint over all the cars an’ wagons an’ change the name of the show. The hay boys thought it was a new outfit.”