society people in this town have already viewed your giant. Open him up now to the plaudits of the multitude. Ask them but one penny. Those pennies will soon add up.”
“It will be a great while before they add up to the size of the pile Joe Vance ran away with.”
“And so? You can diversify. For now that Vance has gone, you’re cock of the walk, I’d say. The boy and the addle-wit will do what you say, and as for the brute, dope him, Fran, if you must—though it strikes me he’s tractable enough.”
“Yes. He’s docile these days. And what can he do without his money? Used to threaten to flounce off to Mulroney’s, but where can he flounce now?”
“Where at all?”
“He’s to be my creature,” Claffey gloated. He stared down. “You’re my creature, Charlie O’Brien, and I’m your only agent now.”
“So what you do, you go to Slig, say, convenient cellar wanted. Only condition, it must be deep enough to let the brute stand up and show off his attributes, get him crouching low and it misses the whole point. A cellar then, deep and dirty. One penny to come down the steps and view. They’ll flock, brother. Every punk in England.”
“Could we not exhibit him here?”
“Here? Why no. These premises, which all persons of refinement like myself find mean enough, would be a terror to the kind of menial dross I’m talking of. You see, there is an art in pleasing the masses—”
“An art, is it?” Claffey said.
“Yes, because by comparison with the masses, philosophers and dukes are easy prey. The problem with the populace is that people are always passing off on them, I mean you get some five-foot fly-by-night standing on a tree-stump, ‘Oh, I’m a giant,’ you get some goitered cretin passing himself off as the Freak That God Forgot—well, it won’t do. Just because a man’s lousy it doesn’t mean he’s a fuck-wit too, it doesn’t mean he’s a moon-calf just because he’s poor. No, what the wider public requires is an honest product, bring them a freak and let it be a sound and genuine freak like Charlie here.” Constantine nudged the Giant with his toe. “Is he asleep, or pretending? Then the other thing is, with the public, you must suit them, you must coddle them, you must slowly considerate about them; when you take their money you must make them feel they’re in their own lice-shot parlours.”
“Hence the cellar.”
“Hence and hence. So get over to Slig.”
“I still say it will be slow work, building up a sack. Maybe we ought to scour as well, see can we find Joe.”
“You know he will have spent it,” Con said patiently. “For you know Joe Vance. The man is a dilettante. He is a snapper-up. A man shows him a cravat at three times its worth, and oh, snap it up, says Joe, cravats like that are worth a king’s ransom. How he ever got on in agenting is something I couldn’t account for.”
“You’re right, bro,” Claffey said. “Charlie’s money will be gone on Canary wine, Chinese cabinets, and unstrung lutes. Moth collections behind glass, rambling roses, and tickets to the opera. That’s what grieves me. I could have spent it on something sensible.”
“Yes,” Con nodded. “It could well be remarked of Joe Vance, that he had a sensibility above his income.”
The Giant opened his eyes. He stared up at them, from the floor, his clear eyes turned backwards in his head. And spoke to this effect: “The Devil cannot genuflect, for backwards are his knees.”
“Mester Howison, will you stand us a round?” Pybus shouted. “Our Giant is robbed and our agent gone, and our pockets are empty.”
So, Pybus: neatly telling the man Howison everything he wished to know.
Ordering up the ale, Howison asked, “How’s your Giant taking it?”
“He lies on the floor,” said Con Claffey, “with his eyes and ears shut mostly.”
“The poor man,” said Howison thoughtfully.
“We will pay you back,” said Claffey, “when we drive the Giant to work. My brother Con here, he has a scheme, about putting him in a cellar.”
“And you have not heard the pretty part of it,” said Con, settling with his pot in front of him. He smiled, and looked mysterious, as well as greasy.
Presently, Tibor the Terrible Tartar came in.
“The man himself,” Con greeted him. “How’s your prancer, Tibbsie?”
Tibor shook his head. He looked downcast. He was a little bow-legged man, grey in the face.
“Her ghost walks the amphitheatres,” he said. “God bless her, Jenny. She was a horse and a half.” An oily tear shone in his eye. “Nobody regards a Tartar with just one horse. Stand on the back at full gallop, swivel under belly, and shoot arrows, they think it’s a mere nothing. I’ve had complaints and demanding their money back. I’ve had dung thrown.”
“Lack of capital just now prevents our investment,” Con Claffey said. “But it may not prevent it forever. Meanwhile, you were telling me about a human pincushion?”
“Yes.” Tibor sat down, sighing, and rubbed his nose. “Whether it’s a plague of agents absconding, or what it is, but there’s a number of acts and shows floundering for want of investment—”
“And want of management,” Con Claffey said. “Here, Mester Howison, won’t you sit with us? You might be interested in this.”
Howison, amiably commanding their pots filled, translated himself among them.
“So what have you got?”
“Pinheads,” the Tartar replied. “Pinheads there for the harvesting. Three I know of alone, in a garret in Conduit Street, existing by the charity of their neighbours, too frail to venture out to get bread, and afraid of being stoned.”
