After that hamburger, although he could have eaten two more along with it, he'd felt better for a while. It was the heat of the day then and he'd curled up under the outside bally platform of the freak show and had napped for a while; that was his sleeping place now. Anyway, it was the place where he'd slept last night after Jesse had kicked him out.
He'd slept there again from noon until the thumping of the bass drum bright over his head had wakened him and he'd crawled out and wandered around the lot hoping someone would send him on another errand and pay him for it so he could get more to eat.
But he couldn't ask. He shouldn't ever ask anybody for money or for food or even for a chance to run an errand and earn money or food. If somebody called him over and asked him to do something for them, that was all right. But never bother anybody; that was one of the things Jesse had been strictest about, never bother people asking them for money or food or candy or for errands to run. Of all the things Jesse had taught him that was the hardest one to live up to now when his stomach hurt.
But he had to live up to it now, keep from doing anything Jesse wouldn't want him to do, or there wouldn't be any chance that Jesse would take him back. And having Jesse take him back was the only answer to his problem. Jesse was his only security. Jesse was mean to him sometimes but Jesse took care of him and fed him and told him what to do and what not to do. Nobody else ever had, as far back as he could remember and he doubted that anyone else ever would.
He had to hope that Jesse would take him back.
And he'd planned carefully, so carefully, just how he'd go about getting Jesse to take him back. He'd planned it when he had awakened this morning. He'd keep out of Jesse's sight, never go past the ball game booth or let Jesse see him anywhere on the lot.
Then Jesse would think he'd gone, and be sorry.
All day he'd not once gone near the ball game booth and he hadn't gone near the chow top around the times when Jesse went there to eat. Jesse hadn't seen him once.
And he'd do the same thing tomorrow, and tomorrow was the last day in Bloomfield and that would give Jesse another day to think he was gone forever and to be sorry. But he'd be on the one of the trucks, still without Jesse having seen him, when the carney moved on from Bloomfield to the next town, whatever town it was, and there, on Monday when Jesse was setting up the booth for business in that town he'd walk up and ask Jesse if he could help. And by then Jesse would be so sorry and so glad to see him that he'd take him back. He'd remember how good and how faithful Sammy had been and he'd think how clever and smart Sammy had been to find the carnival again, even in a different town (because Jesse wouldn't know that Sammy had been with the carnival all along; he'd think Sammy had found it again in the new town). Jesse would even cry, maybe, and he'd say, "Sammy, Sammy, I'm sorry. I thought I'd lost you. I didn't really mean it at all."
Looking ahead to that, Sammy had been good all day. He'd tried his best to follow every rule Jesse had ever told him.
He'd even stayed away from Mr. Magus. Of all people on the lot Mr. Magus had probably been the nicest to him and he'd been the first person Sammy had thought of when he got so hungry. He'd even wandered near the mitt camp once during the day but Mr. Magus hadn't been there. That had been a good thing; if he had been Sammy might have weakened and asked him if he wanted an errand run and that would have been breaking Jesse's strictest rule. Because it was when he broke rules that things went wrong and if he lived by all the rules - no matter how hungry he got - nothing would go wrong and his plan would work out just as he wanted it to work out.
If only he didn't break any rules that he didn't know about yet! Like the rule against finding a body or looking in a window or any of the other things he hadn't ever known he shouldn't do until he'd done them.
Looking in a window must be just about the worst. It was because he'd done that that Jesse had kicked him out and told him to go away. Only Jesse would never have known he'd done it if Mr. Evans hadn't told on him.
He hated Mr. Evans. It was all Mr. Evans's fault that this had happened. Mr. Evans had used to be so nice to him, letting him look at the pictures in magazines and sometimes letting him run errands, and then Mr. Evans had suddenly started to be mean to him. He'd hit him and made him fall just because he'd wanted to see those books again.
Mr. Evans could just have said no without hitting him. But even hitting him hadn't been a tenth as bad as telling on him had been. Mr. Evans could just have said, "Sammy, don't look in my window," and Sammy would have gone away; he'd have known then that not looking in windows was one of the rules and he'd never have done it again. But instead Mr. Evans had told Jesse on him. It was Mr. Evans's fault he was hungry now.
Hungry and now almost without hope of being asked to do an errand tonight. The midway was all dark except for the night lights and everything was closed and there were only a few people around. He'd have to go to bed with his stomach hurting and hope people would give him errands to do tomorrow or he'd have to go hungry another day too and not eat until Jesse took him back the first day in the next town.
Someone was coming toward him. It was Mr. King.
Sammy straightened up and said, "Hi, Mr. King," hopefully. But Mr. King just said, "Hi, Sammy," and walked on past. Sammy turned and watched him. Mr. King got into his car. The engine started and the headlights went on and Mr. King drove away. Sammy was alone again.
He was near the chow top. It was still open, brightly lighted. It always stayed open an hour or two after the carnival closed so the carneys could get something to eat before they turned in for the night. There were people in there; he could hear their voices.
Worse, he could smell food. Hamburgers frying, the smell of coffee. His mouth watered a little.
Suddenly Jesse came out of the chow top.
Sammy turned to run but Jesse yelled "Hey!" and Sammy waited. Maybe Jesse was sorry already and was going to tell him it was all right.
Jesse grabbed him by the arm and his fingers dug in.
Jesse said, "I told you to beat it. Don't hang around here. Hit the road."
The fingers dug in even harder. Sammy wriggled from the pain. "But Jesse, where-"
Jesse pointed with the hand he wasn't using to hurt Sammy's arm. "There's tracks that way. Hit 'em and keep going. Tonight. If I find you round here tomorrow-"
Jesse didn't say what he'd do if he found Sammy around tomorrow. He just let go and walked away.
Far off in the night, in the direction in which Jesse had pointed, a freight engine whistled mournfully. The road, the hungry road. The road that had been before Jesse and the carnival. Hunger and freight cars clacking through the night, and running from brakemen and policemen, hiding and shivering in the cold.
But then a more cheerful thought came to him. Mr. Magus had told him he was going to have a lot of money, folding money, and soon. That must mean that the road was going to be different this time. Mr. Magus knew everything that was going to happen and Mr. Magus wouldn't tell him something that wasn't true.
And Sammy remembered now that the rules were different on the road. One rule was different, anyway. You could ask people for money or for food or for a chance to earn some of either. That is, you could ask at houses for food or money or a chance to work for some. Other hoboes you could ask just for food if they had some and you didn't. But the hoboes were more likely to share food with you than people in houses were likely to give you anything. At least it wasn't like here where you had to wait for somebody to ask you to run an errand. You seldom got enough food and you almost never got any money but at least you could ask.
And maybe this time if he asked people for money they'd give it to him, a lot of it, maybe that was what Mr. Magus had meant.
He started toward the side of the lot that was in the direction of the railroad tracks. The first thing was to get off the lot, now, tonight. He couldn't take a chance of Jesse seeing him in the morning. He'd have to walk until he came to the tracks and then walk and walk until he found a jungle, a fre
ight yard. Tomorrow after it got light he could go to houses and start asking, but he'd have to walk hungry all night first.
He found himself cutting back off the midway between the freak show and the grab joint and stopped because he remembered that if he went that way he'd have to go past Mr. Evans's trailer.
But why shouldn't he go past it? Mr. Evans wouldn't come out and hit him just for walking past. Anyway, he could run, and he thought he could run faster than Mr. Evans. So why should he be afraid of him?
It came to him suddenly that he wasn't, any more. Why, if he had a tent stake or something he could even hit Mr. Evans if Mr. Evans tried to hurt him. And he hated Mr. Evans enough to hit him if Mr. Evans came after him. It was all right to hit to protect yourself. Except with Jesse.
He'd been moving forward slowly, now he could see the trailer and the lights were out. Mr. Evans was probably playing poker in the G-top. And if he was - Sammy's mouth began to water as he remembered that Mr. Evans had a little refrigerator in the trailer and kept food there; sometimes he made a meal for himself instead of going to the chow top. Food. The all-night walk ahead of him would be easy if he could fill his stomach first. And maybe there'd even be enough so that he could carry some with him and he could eat in the morning too.
But what if Mr. Evans was in there, in the dark? If he had a tent stake - but he didn't have one. They were all around him but they were all firmly driven into the ground and he couldn't pull one out all by himself.
Well, he could knock and if no one answered, he'd know Mr. Evans wasn't there. If Mr. Evans came to the door, he could just run.
He knocked and waited and knocked again louder and there wasn't any answer.
He tried the door and it was locked. But now he knew that no one was inside and with the pain in his stomach and the thought of food so near he wasn't going to let a looked door stop him. It would serve Mr. Evans right to have his door broken. He threw his shoulder against the door, and then again harder, and again. The third time did it but it made a loud noise, so instead of going in he ran around the outside of the trailer, around behind it and hid there, watching under it to see if anyone had heard the noise and was coming. No one came.
He walked around front again, on tiptoe. He went inside and turned on the lights. The door, with the lock broken, wouldn't stay shut until he thought of putting a chair against it.
Almost the first thing he saw as he turned toward the little refrigerator was a knife, an ordinary kitchen knife with an eight-inch blade, lying on the sink. That would be better than a tent stake, Sammy thought, if Mr. Evans came back while he was here. Much better. He wouldn't actually cut Mr. Evans with it unless Mr. Evans tried to hurt him - and Mr. Evans wouldn't dare try if he had that knife. He put it through his belt, handle upward so he could grab it quickly if he should need it.
Then he opened the refrigerator. It was disappointing. There was nothing in it but a little piece of butter in waxed paper, a little waxed cardboard carton that probably held cream, and some cans of beer. He picked up the cream and drank it; there was only a mouthful but it tasted wonderful. It was the first time he had ever tasted cream just by itself.
He opened the compartment over the refrigerator. His luck was better there. Half a box of marshmallow cookies; he stuffed one into his mouth right away. And an almost full box of crackers and the heel of a loaf of bread.
He'd eat the cookies here, fast, he decided. They'd be enough to stay that awful gnawing in his stomach. The other stuff, the crackers and the bread and the butter, he'd take along and stop somewhere to eat them a safe distance away, after he'd come to the tracks and walked along them for a while. There was a towel, a nice big one, over the sink. He could use it to make a bindle to carry the other food. He spread it out and put the crackers and the bread on it, then the butter. Still wolfing down cookies, he looked around for anything else that was eatable. He found a little jar of peanut butter and that was all. He put it with the rest and started making a bindle, out of the towel, and then stopped.
Why shouldn't he take along that book that had the interesting pictures in it? All of the books would be too heavy to carry with him and anyway some of them just had printing, but that one book wouldn't make his bindle too heavy and then tomorrow he could look at it as much as he wanted to. Even tonight if he came to a place along the tracks where there was enough light.
He popped another cookie into his mouth and opened the door of the compartment where the books had been.
It was empty.
Mr. Evans must have put the books somewhere else. Well, he'd find them, and while he was looking he might even find something else worth taking, some money; maybe. As long as he was stealing from Mr. Evans he might as well take anything else valuable - and easy to carry - that he could find. It would serve Mr. Evans right because it was Mr. Evans's fault that he was leaving the carnival tonight, Mr. Evans's fault he had to hit the road.
He opened other compartment doors and then drawers. He found quite a few little things that he put on the towel that was going to be his bindle. Things he might be able to sell or trade to somebody for food. He found a cigarette lighter, a necktie pin that had a big clear stone in it that must be a diamond, and a wrist watch that looked old and beat up but might still be worth something.
But not the books. He couldn't find the books. He still hadn't found them as he put the last marshmallow cookie into his mouth. He stood in the middle of the trailer looking around for doors or drawers that he hadn't opened. He thought to bend down and look under the bunk.
There was a suitcase under the bunk and he pulled it out. Maybe that was where Mr. Evans hid the books.
The suitcase was locked but he'd seen a hammer in a drawer a few minutes before so he got the hammer and hit the lock of the suitcase until it burst open.
It was nice swinging the hammer and it served Mr. Evans right to break the lock on his suitcase. For a moment he thought of using the hammer, now that it was in his hand, on other things in the trailer. Dishes, windows, everything that would break. But that would make too much noise. Someone would be sure to hear it and come. He tossed the hammer down on the bunk and lifted the lid of the suitcase.
On top, the first thing he saw, was a gun, a revolver. He picked it up and it felt nice and heavy in his hand. And deadly and dangerous. Holding it, he felt as though he was growing, bigger and stronger and more grown-up. Why, with this gun he wouldn't have to be afraid of anybody, ever. Not even Jesse. Even Jesse would be afraid of him with this gun. He didn't need the knife now; he took it out of his belt and tossed it on the bunk beside the hammer. He put the revolver into his side trousers pocket.
He looked down to see what else might be in the suitcase. He tossed out some neatly folded clothes.
There was a knock on the door, sharp and loud in the stillness of the night.
Sammy whirled and took the gun out of his pocket, pointing it at the door, his finger on the trigger, his thumb on the hammer ready to pull it back and cock it if the door started to open. But he wouldn't cock it unless the door opened because cocking a gun made it click and whoever was outside might hear. Sammy knew how to fire a revolver all right because once Mr. Weschenberg who ran the shooting gallery had asked him to do an errand and then had let him take a few shots with a rifle and a few with a revolver. He hadn't hit anything except one clay duck that he hadn't been aiming at, but he'd shot all right. And Mr. Weschenberg had showed him how, with a revolver, you pull back the hammer and cock it first and then pull the trigger when you're ready to shoot.
Now Sammy stood there, tense, quiet, waiting to see whether whoever had knocked was going to come on in.
He was so quiet that he scarcely breathed.
But not afraid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JUST TWENTY MINUTES before, from the point of vantage he had taken for the purpose of watching, Dr. Magus had sighed with relief as he'd seen Barney King drive off the lot in his jalopy. And right after that he'd looked in the G-top and
had seen that Burt was there, just buying chips to sit in the game. Nice to be sure Burt was occupied too, although the chance was negligible that he would have any reason to go back to his unborn show after it had closed for the night.
Now, back in the mitt camp and sitting in the dark so nobody would know he was there and drop in to chew the fat. Dr. Magus looked again at the luminous hands of his wrist watch and decided he'd given Barney enough time. If Barney had for any reason made a false start, had forgotten something and decided to come back for it, he'd have been back before this; by now he'd be too far on the road to come back and still meet that first plane.
His song and dance for Barney had been an easy one and well worked out. Of course luck had been a factor - Barney's bad luck at poker last night that had made ten bucks look big to him. If Barney had won heavily last night instead, he might have wanted to play again or might have had other plans, and even the twenty bucks Dr. Magus was prepared to raise his offer to might not have looked big enough to tempt him. And more than twenty he couldn't have offered; it would have looked out of line and therefore suspicious.
Yes, Dr. Magus thought, his luck had been in, all down the line since he'd got his first hunch. What a break he'd got at Glenrock - that wonderful head nurse remembering what Mack Irby had raved about while coming out from under the Sodium Pentothal. Of course he could give himself credit for having tossed her a beautiful con, a song and dance that had let him ask questions down the line, even about ravings under anesthetic; and his mention of forty-two toy soldiers had been a master stroke; it had given her a key to remembering. Forty-two G's, and then the hiding place handed to him on a silver platter. He'd hoped to get a lead, but not that he would get the big answer in one fell swoop.
The cardboard carton was ready, the rope inside it. He put it out under the canvas behind the mitt camp, in the shadows there. Now the final check-up. Barney's car still gone. Burt still in the poker game.
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