Speaking of giants, one of mine (not Bobby) was an exceptionally bad sailor, and on one occasion, during the crossing of the Bay of Biscay on the voyage out to the Cape, his sufferings from sea-sickness were atrocious.
CARLTON MESMERIZING BOBBY DUNLOP
Aroused by his groans and gurgles one stormy night, I went to his cabin which was next to mine.
“Can’t you keep anything on your stomach?” I said sympathetically.
“Only my hands,” moaned the poor giant.
Poor Bobby was a jolly fellow—for a giant. Giants are usually more or less irritable and lachrymose. At all events this is my experience of them, and I have had several in my employ in my time. But Bobby was just the reverse of this, always singing and laughing. At least, he was before he came to Berlin. Then a cloud seemed to come over him. His cheerfulness departed. He got homesick. Kept on saying that he didn’t like the country, and that he wanted to get back to America.
Consequently I was not greatly surprised when, a few days after we opened in Berlin, my little dwarf came to me pulling a very long face, and said: “Mr. Carlton, Bobby’s gone.”
I was playing billiards at the time, and intent on my game; so beyond remarking that it was a good job too, I took little notice. I knew, anyhow, that he could not get far without a passport, and that a man of his dimensions could be easily traced, and brought back again.
“But, Mr. Carlton,” persisted the little chap, “I mean Bobby’s dead.”