The dock superintendent was slow in coming. At ten o’clock I was still stretched out in the shade of his veranda, when I was suddenly aroused by a shout from the shore end of the pier. I sprang up to see the Swede struggling to keep a footing in the maelstrom of bullock carts, coolie carriers, and shrieking stevedores, and waving his arms wildly above his head.
“Circus!” he cried, “Der circus is coom, Franck! Creeket ground!” and, turning about, he dashed off at a pace that is rarely equaled in Ceylon by white men who look forward to a long and active life.
I dived into the throng and fought my way to the gate. The Scandinavian was already far down the red driveway leading to the native section. Among such a company of out-of-works as graced Colombo at that season, there was small chance of employment to those who lingered. I dashed after the flying Norseman and overtook him at the entrance to the public playground.
A circus at the hour of its arrival presents a chaotic scene under the best of circumstances. When it has just disembarked from a sea voyage, in a land swarming with half-civilized brown men, its disorder is oppressive. The center of the cricket field was a wild confusion of animal cages, rolls of canvas, scattered tent poles, and all else that goes to make up a traveling menagerie, not forgetting those pompous persons whose hectic garb make them as effective advertising mediums as walking billboards.
At the moment, these romantic beings were doing garrison duty; for the recumbent circus was in a state of siege. Around it surged an ever-increasing multitude of natives, peering, pushing, chattering, falling back terror-stricken before the frenzied circus men who, armed with iron-headed tent stakes, charged back and forth across the space; but sweeping out upon the scattered paraphernalia again after each onslaught.
We battled our way into the inner circle and shouted an offer of our services to the blaspheming manager. He was a typical circus boss; Irish, of course, bullet-headed, of powerful build, and free of movement, with a belligerent cast of countenance that proclaimed his readiness to engage in a “scrap” at any time that he could find leisure for such entertainment. Tugging at a heap of canvas, he peered at us between his out-stretched legs, and shouted above the din of battle:—
“Yis, I want four min! White wans! Are you fellows sailors? There’s a hill of a lot o’ climbin’ to do.”
“Both A. Bs.,” I answered.
“All right! If ye want the job, bring two more.”
We turned to scrutinize the sea of humanity about us. There was not a white face to be seen.