Barney Barnato he was renamed that first day in the arena, when, also, he received the surprise of his life. He did not dream of the spike in the saddle, nor, while the saddle was empty, did it press against him. But the moment Samuel Bacon, a negro tumbler, got into the saddle, the spike sank home. He knew about it and was prepared. But Barney, taken by surprise, arched his back in the first buck he had ever made. It was so prodigious a buck that Collins eyes snapped with satisfaction, while Sam landed a dozen feet away in the sawdust.
“Make good like that,” Collins approved, “and when I sell the mule you’ll go along as part of the turn, or I miss my guess. And it will be some turn. There’ll be at least two more like you, who’ll have to be nervy and know how to fall. Get busy. Try him again.”
And Barney entered into the hell of education that later won his purchaser more time than he could deliver over the best vaudeville circuits in Canada and the United States . Day after day Barney took his torture. Not for long did he carry the spiked saddle. Instead, bare-back, he received the negro on his back, and was spiked and set bucking just the same; for the spike was now attached to Sam’s palm by means of leather straps. In the end, Barney became so “touchy” about his back that he almost began bucking if a person as much as looked at it. Certainly, aware of the stab of pain, he started bucking, whirling, and kicking whenever the first signal was given of some one trying to mount him.
At the end of the fourth week, two other tumblers, white youths, being secured, the complete, builded turn was performed for the benefit of a slender, French-looking gentleman, with waxed moustaches. In the end he bought Barney, without haggling, at Collins’s own terms and engaged Sammy and the other two tumblers as well. Collins staged the trick properly, as it would be staged in the theatre, even had ready and set up all the necessary apparatus, and himself acted as ringmaster while the prospective purchaser looked on.
Barney, fat as butter, humorous-looking, was led into the square of cloth-covered steel cables and cloth-covered steel uprights. The halter was removed and he was turned loose. Immediately he became restless, the ears were laid back, and he was a picture of viciousness.
“Remember one thing,” Collins told the man who might buy. “If you buy him, you’ll be ringmaster, and you must never, never spike him. When he comes to know that, you can always put your hands on him any time and control him. He’s good-natured at heart, and he’s the gratefullest mule I’ve ever seen in the business. He’s just got to love you, and hate the other three. And one warning: if he goes real bad and starts biting, you’ll have to pull out his teeth and feed him soft mashes and crushed grain that’s steamed. I’ll give you the recipe for the digestive dope you’ll have to put in. Now—watch!”
Collins stopped into the ring and caressed Barney, who responded in the best of tempers and tried affectionately to nudge and shove past on the way out of the ropes to escape what he knew was coming.
“See,” Collins exposited. “He’s got confidence in me. He trusts me. He knows I’ve never spiked him and that I always save him in the end. I’m his good Samaritan, and you’ll have to be the same to him if you buy him.—Now I’ll give you your spiel. Of course, you can improve on it to suit yourself.”
The master-trainer walked out of the rope square, stepped forward to an imaginary line, and looked down and out and up as if he were gazing at the pit of the orchestra beneath him, across at the body of the house, and up into the galleries.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he addressed the sawdust emptiness before him as if it were a packed audience, “this is Barney Barnato, the biggest joker of a mule ever born. He’s as affectionate as a Newfoundland puppy—just watch—”
Stepping back to the ropes, Collins extended his hand across them, saying: “Come here, Barney, and show all these people who you love best.”
And Barney twinkled forward on his small hoofs, nozzled the open hand, and came closer, nozzling up the arm, nudging Collins’s shoulders with his nose, half-rearing as if to get across the ropes and embrace him. What he was really doing was begging and entreating Collins to take him away out of the squared ring from the torment he knew awaited him.
“That’s what it means by never spiking him,” Collins shot at the man with the waxed moustaches, as he stepped forward to the imaginary line in the sawdust, above the imaginary pit of the orchestra, and addressed the imaginary house.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Barney Barnato is a josher. He’s got forty tricks up each of his four legs, and the man don’t live that he’ll let stick on big back for sixty seconds. I’m telling you this in fair warning, before I make my proposition. Looks easy, doesn’t it?—one minute, the sixtieth part of an hour, to be precise, sixty seconds, to stick on the back of an affectionate josher mule like Barney. Well, come on you boys and broncho riders. To anybody who sticks on for one minute I shall immediately pay the sum of fifty dollars; for two whole, entire minutes, the sum of five hundred dollars.”
This was the cue for Samuel Bacon, who advanced across the sawdust, awkward and grinning and embarrassed, and apparently was helped up to the stage by the extended hand of Collins.
“Is your life insured?” Collins demanded.
Sam shook his head and grinned.
“Then what are you tackling this for?”
“For the money,” said Sam. “I jes’ naturally needs it in my business.”
“What is your business?”
“None of your business, mister.” Here Sam grinned ingratiating apology for his impertinence and shuffled on his legs. “I might be investin’ in lottery tickets, only I ain’t. Do I get the money?—that’s our business.”
“Sure you do,” Collins replied. “When you earn it. Stand over there to one side and wait a moment.—Ladies and gentlemen, if you will forgive the delay, I must ask for more volunteers.—Any more takers? Fifty dollars for sixty seconds. Almost a dollar a second . . . if you win. Better! I’ll make it a dollar a second. Sixty dollars to the boy, man, woman, or girl who sticks on Barney’s back for one minute. Come on, ladies. Remember this is the day of equal suffrage. Here’s where you put it over on your husbands, brothers, sons, fathers, and grandfathers. Age is no limit.—Grandma, do I get you?” he uttered directly to what must have been a very elderly lady in a near front row.—“You see,” (to the prospective buyer), “I’ve got the entire patter for you. You could do it with two rehearsals, and you can do them right here, free of charge, part of the purchase.”
The next two tumblers crossed the sawdust and were helped by Collins up to the imaginary stage.
“You can change the patter according to the cities you’re in,” he explained to the Frenchman. “It’s easy to find out the names of the most despised and toughest neighbourhoods or villages, and have the boys hail from them.”
Continuing the patter, Collins put the performance on. Sam’s first attempt was brief. He was not half on when he was flung to the ground. Half a dozen attempts, quickly repeated, were scarcely better, the last one permitting him to remain on Barney’s back nearly ten seconds, and culminating in a ludicrous fall over Barney’s head. Sam withdrew from the ring, shaking his head dubiously and holding his side as if in pain. The other lads followed. Expert tumblers, they executed most amazing and side-splitting fails. Sam recovered and came back. Toward the last, all three made a combined attack on Barney, striving to mount him simultaneously from different slants of approach. They were scattered and flung like chaff, sometimes falling heaped together. Once, the two white boys, standing apart as if recovering breath, were mowed down by Sam’s flying body.