Mr. A. Marvel had me sign papers for my wages and gave me a book of vouchers for my meals. I would be issued a new one each week. “You’ve missed breakfast,” he said, to my dismay. “Lunch is at noon. You can present your voucher book to get into the show later. That way they’ll know you’re not a rube. Watch how professionals do it.”
I am a professional, I thought, but decided I would likely cut my employment short if I argued. “Where should I sleep, sir?” I asked.
The young man shook his head and flipped through a logbook.
“There’s room in one of the men’s dormitory cars,” he told me. “It’s bright green and gold, next to the elephants. Leave your bag there and then go report to Mr. Rose.”
I found the sleeper car, and a motley assortment of young men who didn’t seem annoyed to see me.
“Oh, we get all sorts through here,” said one fellow. “What’s one more?” He pointed me to a place I could stow my luggage and to an upper berth where I could sleep, halfway down the bunk-lined carriage.
“It’s not bad diggings if you don’t mind the occasional stench of elephant,” said another fellow. He waved a hand under his nose.
Down the far end was a washroom with a tank of water. The other facility consisted of a seat over a hole in the floor—a drafty perch above a honey bucket hung below. I suspected it wouldn’t be just elephants I’d be smelling.
“Parade’s starting!” called an acrobat from the door, and the young men scrambled to leave.
“Where do I find Mr. Rose?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s in Happy Times,” said one of the boys.
“Constantly,” said another, causing gales of laughter.
“Three cars that way,” said a fellow, pointing, before he left.
Down the train I mounted a crate to knock on a dark green door. The words HAPPY TIMES embellished the center panel in silver paint.
“Who’s that?” came a gruff voice.
“Abel Dandy, sir,” I replied. “Your new assistant.”
“Is that so? Well, come in, then, damn you.”
I opened the door and climbed into a tiny salon with heavy curtains pulled back from the windows by gilt ties. The near wall, free of seats, allowed passage to wood-paneled sleeping compartments beyond. On the far wall a pair of embroidered settees, affixed to the floor like regular train seats, faced each other to either side of a dark wood table. A middle-aged gentleman sat there in dressing gown and slippers, his waxed mustache askew, a stack of playing cards on the table beside a bottle of whiskey.
“My new assistant, are you, now?” Mr. Rose sneered.
“Mr. A. Marvel hired me this morning,” I said.
Mr. Rose narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look like a girl.”
I gritted my teeth. “No, sir, but Mr. Marvel said I would have to do until he found one for you.”
My anger seemed to amuse Mr. Rose. He relaxed into his seat and paid full attention to his cards. “Clean shoes, can you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know how to press a gentleman’s jacket?”
“Well, yes.”
“Can you stand still with a knife coming at you?”
“I’ve done it before.”
“Then, until I can find a pretty girl with a short skirt, you’ll stand target.”
I should have been happy to be in the act; instead I eyed the bottle of whiskey on the table and felt a cold slug of apprehension.