“If I knew where Caskey was, I’d call the watch and see her marched to Newgate. When your girl Mary upped and left me, she helped herself to my purse with a guinea in it, and I’d swear Caskey put her up to it.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want Mary, anyway?” He sniggered. “You want to put her on the streets and live on her while she’s fresh meat. You’re after making an income for yourself and swaggering out as you used to this summer. Are you feeling the pinch? Your giant’s not what they call open-handed, is he?”
“He is saving up,” Claffey said. “To restore the Court of Poetry.”
Kane stared at him.
Indoors, Joe was trying to put a brave face on it. “It’s not the standard we’re accustomed to, but we can soon impart the individual touch. Wait till I get my set of satirical prints hung up, that will raise the tone.”
“Somebody’s nailed this window shut,” Pybus said. “And look at these rags stuffed in the cracks. When the fire’s going, the air in here will be so thick you’d need a knife to slice it.”
“The prudent and economical man,” Joe Vance said, “has no need of silk bedcurtains, and makes do with linsey woolsey. As for this set of spoons—why, a philosopher would not despise it.” Joe looked around at them, smiling. “I’m off to the jobbin’ now. Get some more bills printed. I’m bringing your price down, Charlie. You’re coming down by a shilling. It’s to stimulate demand and appeal to a new class of investors.”
“Is there any news of Patrick O’Brien?” Claffey asked.
“Yes.” Joe didn’t cease to smile. “They say he’s booked his passage, and an entourage with him.”
Their cage was set upon the deal table; and the siskins began to sing.
One of their first visitors after the price had come down was a low, strong-looking man with not much top to his head, with sandy whiskers and a big jaw. He sat at the back when the viewers were ushered in, and folded his arms and never spoke, but he never took his eyes away either.
“Jesus,” the Giant said. “He ought to pay double, for the amount he looked. His eyebeams would slice through your flesh.”
At the point where the usual questions were over—How does it feel to be a giant? Did you always want to be a giant? Can anyone be a giant or are you born to it?—Joe had risen as usual, softly clearing his throat, his fingers making tactful little whisking movements towards the door. The sandy cove had stepped forward, and as the other clients took their leave he asked, “Are you quite well, my good fellow?”
His words were Scotch, and sharp. But close to, his glance did not seem perturbing; it wandered, and he squinted more than a little.
“Am I well?” the Giant had said. “Not precisely. My feet are enlarged, and I feel the springy gristle of my ankles and knees to be calcined. My hands are swole, and my arms drag out their sockets. There is a raddling in my kidneys, and my memory fails. I have taken a hatred to strong cheese, my head aches, and I stub my toes as I walk.”
“I see,” said the Scotchman. “Anything else?”
“I feel a gathering of the waters of the heart.”
“Ah.”
Just at that moment, Joe Vance, who had been ushering out the clients, came bursting back. “Charlie, I’ve been wanting to tell you—I’d the letter just before we exhibited—do you know Mester Goss of Dublin, Goss that trained the intelligent horse?”
“How so intelligent?” the Scotchman said. “A horse that did tricks, did it?”
“Tricks you may call them,” Joe said, “but they induced in Goss prosperity and fame. Why, the equine could count! It was exhibited through Europe. Surely you’ve heard of it, sir, or where do you live? Well, the thing is, Charlie, I hear now that Goss is training up a sapient pig. And I’ve been wondering, when it’s trained, to make him an offer for it. Couldn’t we do grand business, don’t you think, a giant and a learned pig on the one bill?”
The Giant asked, “What is the name of it?”
“Toby. All sapient pigs are called Toby.”
“Is that so? It is one of the few facts I had not taken under cognizance.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the Scot, “I would recommend you take expert advice before parting with your money, and if it comes to a contract, insert a clause allowing you to return the pig if you are not fully satisfied—within a reasonable time, say, a calendar month, which will give you the opportunity of a fair trial.” (All this time, his eyes are boring into Charlie; the Giant feels his bones will split open and the marrow ooze out.) “That’s my advice and freely given, for I’ve seen a number of these so-called educated bears and the like, and it’s notable that they don’t perform nearly so well when they are parted from their first keepers.”
“Perhaps they grieve,” suggested the Giant.
“No, it is a code. If they can count, or tell fortunes, it’s because the keepers have taught them a code.”
“It’s clever in itself,” said the Giant. “I could take to Toby, if he knew a code.”
“I wonder,” Vance said, “would you invest in it, Charlie? The money out your sack? Or some of it? If I were to write a billet to Goss?”
The Giant rubbed his chin. “Could I feel your pulse, sir?” asked the Scotchman.
“I don’t know. Do we charge for it, Joe?”
“A donation would be gratefully received.”
The customer put his hand in his pocket, and slapped down a farthing. His mouth turned down. He grappled the Giant’s wrist in his. “Hm,” he grunted. “Hm.” He began counting. “Hm,” he said again.
Released, the Giant stood up. The customer came to his waist. “Are you in the physicking line, then?”
“No, my trade is other. Bid you good day.”
