To Sally it was all like a dream, a fantastic, lovely dream—except that in dreams you are never permitted to eat the feast that your hunger makes so real. And not even in a dream could she have imagined anything so good as the thick, furry, dark-brown buckwheat cakes, plastered with golden butter and swimming in maple syrup.
And Eddie Cobb’s voice seemed real enough, although the things he was telling her and David in the hastily erected cook tent certainly had dream-like qualities. And David, sighing with satisfaction over his third plateful of hot cakes, was gloriously real. So was the long, rough-pine counter at which they ate, and behind which the big negro cook sang songs as he worked before a huge smoky oil stove. Tables scattered throughout the tent and covered with worn oilcloth reminded her of the refectory of the orphanage which now seemed so far away in the past of her childhood. She drew her wondering eyes from their exploration of the cook tent, focussed them on Eddie Cobb’s freckled, good-natured face, listened to what he was telling them:
“This is a pretty good outfit. We carry our own show train, even for the short jumps, and the star performers and the big boss and the barkers—when they’re flush—eat in the dining car. Got a special cook for the big bugs, waiters and everything. ’Course sometimes we can’t get show grounds clost enough to the railroad to use the cars much, but in this burg we’re lucky enough to get a lot pretty clost to a siding. The performers will sleep in their berths, less’n it gets too hot and they want their tents pitched on the lot.”
“What do you do in the carnival, Eddie?” Sally asked respectfully.
“Oh, I’m helpin’ Lucky Looey on the wheels. Gamblin’ concessions, you know,” he enlarged grandly. “Looey’s got three kewpie dolls booths and I’m in charge of one of ’em. Old Bybee—Winfield Bybee—owns the show and travels with it—not like most owners. He owns the concessions and lets concessionaires operate ’em on percentage. He owns the freaks and the girlie show and the high-diver and all the ridin’ rackets—ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds, whips ’n everything. He’ll be showin’ up any minute now and I’ll give you a knockdown to him.”
“You’re so good to us, Eddie,” Sally glowed at him. “David and I hadn’t an idea what we should do, and we were so hungry we could have eaten field corn off the stalks.”
“You looked all in,” Eddie grinned at her. “So you run away, too, Sally. Couldn’t stand the racket any longer, eh? Is David here a buddy you picked up on the road? Gosh! To think of little Sally Ford hoboing?”
“I’m afraid I’ve taken advantage of your friendship for Sally, Cobb,” David said. “The truth is, Cobb—”
“Aw, make it Eddie. We’re all buddies, ain’t we?”
“Well, the truth is, Eddie, that I’m afraid I’m a fugitive from justice. I wanted to take Sally back to the orphanage and give myself up for murder—”