I crossed the continent to New York and went straight to my mother’s. She lived in a little flat on Third Avenue. You must remember that I had not seen her for nineteen years. Almost tremblingly I mounted the steps and rang the bell at her door. It seemed an age before the knob turned and the door opened. In the doorway I saw a stout woman, who stared at me curiously. I saw that she did not recognize me.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked.
“Don’t you know me?” I asked.
The woman looked steadily at me, and said slowly:
“No.”
It gave me a deep wrench.
“I am your boy Jules,” I said. She gave a cry and fell on my neck. Then she almost carried me into the room and made me sit on her lap. She caressed my face, and said:
“You have changed a great deal. Where is your soft, silky hair that you had as a boy, and what has become of your beautiful complexion?”
Sadly enough my circus life had played havoc with whatever tenderness and softness I once had in my face. The Red Rattle, as the paint I had used in the Demon Act is called, had left marks on my face. Besides, pain and hardship had put their indelible impress in lines and wrinkles. The close-fitting caps that I had to wear as clown had made my hair thin and coarse.
But I was glad to be back even in the pretense of a home. I inquired eagerly of my sisters. One of them, Millie, had become a great balancing trapeze artist, and was with the Forepaugh circus. Another sister, Jennie, was a noted bareback rider with the Sells show; my brother Tom had developed into a famous acrobat and pantomimist, and was with the Hanlons. I felt proud of all of them. They had done honor and dignity to the family’s circus name, and maintained its best traditions. I alone felt that it was up to me to do something great in my line.