“That means a few chips a day for some of us,” said Askins. “Circuses must have white workmen. Natives won’t do.”
“Huh! Yank,” roared the Swede half a minute later, “you get burn some, eh, playing mit der monkeys in der jungle? Pretty soon you ban sunstroke. Here, I make you trade.” He pointed to a helmet on the table before him. “He ban good hat,” went on Ole proudly; “I get him last week from der Swede consul. Min he too big. What you give?”
I went upstairs, and returned with a cotton jacket that I had left in the keeping of Askins.
“How’s this?” I demanded.
“He ban all right,” answered Ole, slipping into it; “der oder vas all broke by der sleeves.”
I put on the helmet, and strolled down toward Gordon Gardens, where I had taken up sleeping quarters. It was a park rich in fountains, gay flowers, and grateful shade. Under the trees the night dew never fell, the ocean breeze was the coolest in Colombo, the fountains were good bathrooms, and the ground was a softer bed than any short-legged table could be.
One by one, there drifted into Colombo four fellow countrymen of mine, who, following my example, took up their lodgings in Gordon Gardens. It soon became known as the “American Park Hotel.” One of the newcomers was Marten, from Tacoma, Washington. He was a boy who had spent two seasons in the Orient, diving for pearls.
Another American in our party claimed New York as his birthplace. He said that if we wanted a name for him, “Dick Haywood” would do well enough for a time. But I will tell more of him later.
One day, as dawn was breaking, I climbed the fence of the “American Park Hotel,” and strolled away toward the beach for a dip in the sea, to take the place of breakfast; for my last coin was spent. As I lay stretched on the sands after my bath, I heard someone shout my name. I sprang up, to see the Swede rushing toward me, waving his arms wildly above his head.
“Circus!” he cried. “Der circus is coom, Franck! Creeket-ground!” And, turning about, he dashed off faster than most white men dare to run in Ceylon.