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LaPierre skidded to a halt when he saw the ball near the apex of the ramp, and his arms fell to his sides. Those around him backed away, for he smelled to blue blazes.
“Who ees in there?” he demanded in a voice on the edge of hysteria.
Mr. G. Marvel stalked up. “Keep your voice down,” he growled. “I’m glad to know it isn’t you I am about to kill. How could you allow this?” His aristocratic nostrils pinched in disgust, although he made no comment on the smell.
“I was trapped,” Monsieur LaPierre exclaimed. “There was an elephant in front of the outhouse door. I tried to climb over the transom, but I slipped ….” Here he lapsed into colorful French and gestured wildly once more, and I tried not to look at the stains on his legs.
“Rosie wandered off,” said the confused elephant trainer. “She usually stands in line with the others, quiet as you please. She don’t need no watching.”
The crowd burst into applause. The ball had reached the platform. It trembled there like an egg before it hatched. Pop! Two hairy arms emerged from holes in the sides and waved flags.
The audience, who knew no better, cheered.
“Haw! Haw! A monkey can do your act, Frenchie,” mocked the vulgar clown.
“Get it. Get it,” Monsieur LaPierre demanded.
Mr. Marvel gestured a boy over and sent him outside with a message. Within seconds roustabouts closed in toward the ring. My heart raced with fear. How could I bear to see Apollo beaten? I would have to run to his aid. I would die right there beside him—and I didn’t want to die.
The ball inched down the ramp, slowly, slowly, but then something went wrong. The ball lurched forward. Apollo must have turned head over heels inside. He lost his balance. The ball careened around the curve. It flew off the track. The men ran forward, but the ball hurtled over their heads. The audience screamed; some fled their seats.
The ball crashed into a tent pole and shattered. Apollo splayed upon the ground. He sat up, rubbing his head and blinking. The first thing he must have seen was a wall of thugs headed his way.
“Run!” I cried. I prayed that he wasn’t hurt.
He staggered to his feet, shimmied up the tent pole, grabbed a rope, and swung over their heads to land in the front ring, then raced for the exit.
“Send in the clowns! Send in the clowns!” screamed Mr. Marvel above the panic. His face bloomed purple with rage as he followed his bullies.
I chased after Apollo, the roustabouts, and the ringmaster and heard a shriek from outside.
I arrived just in time to see Marika pointing at a nearby painted wagon. “It was a giant monkey. It went under there.” She flung herself into the arms of one of her brothers.
A burly roustabout dived under the wagon. The others surrounded it so there was no escape; behind them some of the audience who had followed us outside gaped and gawked.
“The little bastard bit me,” roared an uncouth voice from under the wagon, and a lady near me gasped. The roustabout emerged from between the crimson wagon wheels. He dragged a thrashing, crying Apollo by his shirt collar. Apollo’s nose was bloody.
“Let him go!” I pushed through the onlookers, but before I reached Apollo, rough hands clutched my arms.
“Abel, Abel,” my little friend called. “He hit me!”
“What is it?” a man exclaimed.
“It’s a freak,” cried someone else. “A dirty freak!”
A woman squealed.
“He’s not a freak,” I yelled. “He’s a boy.” I struggled to free myself and ran to defend my friend.
“Get them to my carriage,” ordered Geoffrey Marvel in a voice as cold as doom.
9
FOR THE FIRST TIME I SAW ALL THREE Marvel brothers together. The two older ones were strapping, big fellows with large mustaches, interchangeable; the fellow from the office was also big but probably a decade younger than the other two. They towered over Apollo and me like outraged Olympic gods in suits. A roustabout guarded the door of Mr. Geoffrey Marvels magnificent Wagner Palace car; another two were posted outside.
“What are we to think of this, Jacob?” asked Mr. G. Marvel.
“I do not know, Geoffrey, I do not know at all,” answered Mr. J. Marvel.
