However, it was decided that a cage of white leghorn fowls, colored with aniline dyes, could be shown even in these barren times as “Royal South American Witherlicks”; that Joachim could be converted into a passable zebra, and “Plug” Avery still had in his van the celluloid lemon peel as well as the glass cube that created the illusion of ice in the pink lemonade. The village painter was set at work on the new gilding of the chariots in the big barn.
“Even if we don’t really get away,” explained Buck, “it’s a good idea to keep the property from running down.”
But the appearance of the new gilt inflamed their showmen’s hearts. An irresistible hankering to get a nearer sniff of the sawdust, to mix with the old crowd, induced Buck to send a card to a sporting paper, advertising for correspondence from bareback riders, tumblers, specialty people and privilege speculators, who wanted to join a “one-ring, chase-the-fairs road show—no first-raters.” He emphasized the fact that all personal interviews would be arranged later in New York City.
“We don’t want anyone tracking down here,” he confided to Avery. “That would call the bluff. But we can get some letters that maybe will perk us up a little.”
The letters came in bundles—letters long, short, earnest and witty—whiffs from the good old world of the dressing tent. And they were read and discussed on the emporium’s platform, and some were answered in non-committal style so as to draw out further correspondence, and all in all it was voted by both “Plugs” that a small amount of money invested in advertising certainly did produce its full worth of entertainment.
But in the midst of these innocent attempts to alleviate ennui something else came along beside letters. It was a woman—a slim, wiry, alert woman. She clambered down from the stage one day, advanced trippingly to the platform and courtesied low before the two plug hats, her long, draggly plume bobbing against her rouged cheek. The two plug hats arose and were doffed. Then the three faced each other.
“You don’t hold your ages as well as I do, boys,” she commented, after her sharp scrutiny.
“It’s the old army game, gents!” screamed the parrot, excited by this new arrival, gay with her colors and her ribbons.
“It’s Her!” gasped Plug Avery.
“It’s Signory Rosy-elly!” choked Plug Avery.