Gladiator by Philip Wylie (top reads txt) đ
- Author: Philip Wylie
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He held her hands. âYou wonât lose me. And I havenât got a hotelâyet.â
âThen-come up anâ stay with me. Honest, Iâm all right. I can prove it to you. Itâll be doinâ me a favor.â
âI ought not to, Charlotte.â
She threw her arms around him and kissed him. He felt her breath on his lips and the warmth of her body. âYou gotta, kid. Youâre all I ever had. Please, please.â
Hugo walked up the stairs thoughtfully. In her small room he watched her disrobe. So willingly now-so eagerly. She turned back the covers of the bed. âIt ainât much of a dump, baby, but Iâll make you like it.â
Much later, in the abyss of darkness, he heard her voice, sleepy and still husky. âSay, mister, whatâs your name?â
They had breakfast together in a quiet enchantment. Once she kissed him.
âWould you like to keep house-for me?â he asked.
âDo you mean it?â
âSure, I mean it. Iâll get a job and weâll find an apartment and you can spend your spare time swimming and lying on the beach.â He knew a twinge of unexpected jealousy. âThat is, if youâll promise not to look at all the men who are going to look at you.â He was ashamed of that statement.
Charlotte, however, was not sufficiently civilized to be displeased. âDo you think Iâd two-time the first gent that ever worried about what I did in my spare moments? Why, if you brought home a few bucks to most of the birds I know, they wouldnât even ask how you earned itâtheyâd be so busy lookinâ for another girl anâ a shot of gin.â
âWellâletâs go.â
Hugo went to one of the largest side shows. After some questioning he found the manager. âIâm H. Smith,â he said, âand I want to apply for a job.â
âDoinâ what?â
âA strong-man act,â Hugo said.
Charlotte tittered. She thought that the bravado of her new friend was overstepping the limits of good sense. The manager sat up. âIâd like to have a good strong man, yes. The show needs one. But youâre not the bird. You havenât got the beef. Go over and watch that damned German work.â
Hugo bent over and fastened one hand on the back of the chair on which the manager sat. Without evidence of effort he lifted the chair and its occupant high over his head.
âFor Christâs sake, let me down,â the manager said.
Hugo swung him through the air in a wide arc. âI say, mister, that Iâm three times stronger than that German. And I want your job. If I donât look strong enough, Iâll wear some padded tights. And Iâll give you a show thatâll be worth the admission. But I want a slice of the entrance priceâand maybe a separate tent, see? My name is Hogarthââhe winked at Charlotteââand youâll never be sorry you took me on.â
The manager, panting and astonished, was returned to the floor. His anger struggled with his pleasure at Hugoâs showmanship. âWell, what else can you do? Weight-lifting is pretty stale.â
Hugo thought quickly. âI can bend a railroad railânot a spike. I can lift a full-grown horse with oneâone shoulder. I can chin myself on my little finger. I can set a bear trap with my teethââ
âThatâs a good number.â
âI can push up just twice as much weight as any one else in the game and you can print a challenge on my tent. I can pull a boa constrictor straightââ
âWeâll give you a chance. Come around here at three this afternoon with your stuff and weâll try your act. Does this lady work in it? Thatâll help.â
âYes,â Charlotte said.
Hugo nodded. âSheâs my assistant.â
They left the building, and when she was sure they were out of earshot, Charlotte said: âWhat do you do, strong boy, fake em?â
âNo. I do them.â
âAwâyou donât need to kid me.â
âIâm not. You saw me lift him, didnât you? Wellâthat was nothing.â
âJeest! That I should live to see the day I got a bird like you.â
Until three oâclock Hugo and Charlotte occupied their time with feverish activity. They found a small apartment not far from the seashore. It was clean and bright and it had windows on two sides. Its furniture was nearly new, and Charlotte, with tears in her eyes, sat in all the chairs, lay on the bed, took the egg-beater from the drawer in the kitchen table and spun it in an empty bowl. They went out together and bought a quantity and a variety of food. They ate an early luncheon and Hugo set out to gather the properties for his demonstration. At three oâclock, before a dozen men, he gave an exhibition of strength the like of which had never been seen in any museum of human abnormalities.
When he went back to his apartment, Charlotte, in a gingham dress which she had bought with part of the money he had given her, was preparing dinner. He took her on his lap. âDid you get the job?â
âSure I did. Fifty a week and ten per cent of the gate receipts.â
âGee! Thatâs a lot of money!â
Hugo nodded and kissed her. He was very happy. Happier, in a certain way, than he had ever been or ever would be again. His livelihood was assured. He was going to live with a woman, to have one always near to love and to share his life. It was that concept of companionship, above all other things, which made him glad.
Two days later, as Hugo worked to prepare the vehicles of his exhibition, he heard an altercation outside the tent that had been erected for him. A voice said: âWhatcha try inâ to do there, anyhow?â
âWhy, I was making this strong man as I saw him. A man with the expression of strength in his face.â
âBut you gotta batâ robe on him. What we want is muscles. Muscles, bo. Bigger anâ better than any picture of any strong man ever made. Put one hereâanâ one thereââ
âBut that isnât correct anatomy.â
âTo hell witâ that stuff. Put one there, I says.â
Hugo walked out of the tent. A young man was bending over a huge sheet made of many lengths of oilcloth sewn together. He was a small person, with pale eyes and a white skin. Beside him stood the manager, eying critically the strokes applied to the cloth. In a semi-finished state was the young manâs picture of the imaginary Hogarth.
âThatâs pretty good,â Hugo said.
The young man smiled apologetically. âIt isnât quite right. You can see for yourself you have no muscles thereâand there. I suppose youâre Hogarth?â
âYes.â
âWellâI tried to explain the anatomy of it, but Mr. Smoots says anatomy doesnât matter. So here we go.â He made a broad orange streak.
Hugo smiled. âSmoots is not an anatomical critic of any renown. I say, Smoots, let him paint it as he sees best. God knows the other posters are atrocious enough.â
The youth looked up from his work. âGood God, donât tell me youâre really Hogarth!â
âSure. Why not?â
âWellâwellâIâI guess it was your English.â
âThatâs funny. And I donât blame you.â Hugo realized that the young sign-painter was a person of some culture. He was about Hugoâs age, although he seemed younger on first glance. âAs a matter of fact, Iâm a college man.â Smoots had moved away. âBut, for the love of God, donât tell any one around here.â
The painter stopped. âIs that so! And youâre doing thisâto make money?â
âYes.â
âWell, Iâll be doggoned. Me, too. I study at the School of Design in the winter, and in the summer I come out here to do signs and lightning portraits and whatever else I can to make the money for it. Sometimes,â he added, âI pick up more than a thousand bucks in a season. This is my fourth year at it.â
There was in the young artistâs eye a hint of amusement, a suggestion that they were in league. Hugo liked him. He sat down on a box. âLive here?â
âYes. Three blocks away.â
âMe, too. Why not come up and have supper withâmy wife and me?â
âAre you married?â The artist commenced work again.
Hugo hesitated. âYeah.â
âSure Iâll come up. My nameâs Valentine Mitchel. I canât shake hands just now. Itâs been a long time since Iâve talked to any one who doesnât say âdeezâ and âdoze.ââ
When, later in the day, they walked toward Hugoâs home, he was at a loss to explain Charlotte. The young painter would not understand why he, a college man, chose so ignorant a mate On the other hand, he owed it to Charlotte to keep their secret and he was not obliged to make any explanation.
Valentine Mitchel was, however, a young man of some sensitivity. If he winced at Charlotteâs âPleased to meetcher,â he did not show it. Later, after an excellent and hilarious meal, he must have guessed the situation. He went home reluctantly and Hugo was delighted with him. He had been urbane and filled with anecdotes of Greenwich Village and art-school life, of Paris, whither his struggling footsteps had taken him for a hallowed year. And with his acceptance of Hugo came an equally warm pleasure in Charlotteâs company.
âHeâs a good little kid,â Charlotte said.
âYes. Iâm glad I picked him up.â
The gala opening of Hogarthâs Studio of Strength took place a few nights afterwards. It proved even more successful than Smoots had hoped. The flamboyant advertising posters attracted crowds to see the man who could set a bear trap with his teeth, who could pull an angry boa constrictor into a straight line. Before ranks of gaping faces that were supplanted by new ranks every hour, Hugo performed. Charlotte, resplendent in a black dress that left her knees bare, and a red sash that all but obliterated the dress, helped Hugo with his ponderous props, setting off his strength by contrast, and sold the pamphlets Hugo had written at Smootsâs suggestion-pamphlets that purported to give away the secret of Hogarthâs phenomenal muscle power. Valentine Mitchel watched the entire performance.
When it was over, he said to Hugo: âNow you better beat it back and get a hot bath. Youâre probably all in.â
âYes,â Charlotte said. âCome. I myself will bathe you.â
Hugo grinned. âHell, no. Now weâre all going on a bender to celebrate. Weâll eat at Villapigueâs and weâll take a moonlight sail.â
They went together, marveling at his vitality, gay, young, and living in a world that they managed to forget did not exist. The night was warm. The days that followed were warmer. The crowds came and the brassy music hooted and coughed over them night and day.
Only once that he could recall afterwards did he allow his intellect to act in any critical direction, and that was in a conversation with the young artist. They were sitting together in the sand, and Charlotte, browned by weeks of bathing, lay near by. âHere I am,â Mitchel said with an unusual thoughtfulness, âwith a talent that should be recognized, wanting to be an illustrator, able to be one, and yet forced to dawdle with this horrible business to make my living.â
Hugo nodded. âYouâll come throughâsome winterâand you wonât ever return to Coney Island.â
âI know it. Unless I do it for sentimental reasons some dayâin a limousine.â
âItâs myself,â Hugo said then, âand not you who is doomed toâwell, to this sort of thing. You have a talent that is at least understandable andââhe was going to say mediocre. He checked himselfââapplicable in the world of human affairs. My talentâif it is a talentâhas no place, no application, no audience.â
Mitchel stared at Hugo,
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