Gladiator by Philip Wylie (recommended reading .txt) 📕

of his majestic strength. A sideshow manager, sitting behind a dirty desk in a dirty building.

“A strongman act,” Hugo said.

Charlotte tittered. She thought that the bravado of her new friend was overstepping the limits of good sense. The manager sat up. “I’d like to have a good strong man, yes. The show needs one. But you’re not the bird. You haven’t got the beef. Go over and watch that damned German work.”

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.

“For Christ’s sake, let me down,” the manager said.

Hugo swung him through the air in a wide arc. “I say, mister, that I’m three times stronger than that German. And I want your job. If I don’t look strong enough, I’ll wear some padded tights. And I’ll give you a show that’ll be worth the admission. But I want a slice of the entrance price⁠—and maybe a separate tent, see? My name is Hogarth”⁠—he winked at Charlotte⁠—“and you’ll never be sorry you took me on.”

The manager, panting and astonished, was returned to the floor. His anger struggled with his pleasure at Hugo’s showmanship. “Well, what else can you do? Weightlifting is pretty stale.”

Hugo thought quickly. “I can bend a railroad rail⁠—not a spike. I can lift a full-grown horse with one⁠—one shoulder. I can chin myself on my little finger. I can set a bear trap with my teeth⁠—”

“That’s a good number.”

“I can push up just twice as much weight as anyone else in the game and you can print a challenge on my tent. I can pull a boa constrictor straight⁠—”

“We’ll give you a chance. Come around here at three this afternoon with your stuff and we’ll try your act. Does this lady work in it? That’ll help.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said.

Hugo nodded. “She’s my assistant.”

They left the building, and when she was sure they were out of earshot, Charlotte said: “What do you do, strong boy, fake ’em?”

“No. I do them.”

“Aw⁠—you don’t need to kid me.”

“I’m not. You saw me lift him, didn’t you? Well⁠—that was nothing.”

“Jeest! That I should live to see the day I got a bird like you.”

Until three o’clock 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 eggbeater 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 o’clock, 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. “Did you get the job?”

“Sure I did. Fifty a week and ten percent of the gate receipts.”

“Gee! That’s a lot of money!”

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: “Whatcha tryin’ to do there, anyhow?”

“Why, I was making this strong man as I saw him. A man with the expression of strength in his face.”

“But you gotta bat’ robe on him. What we want is muscles. Muscles, bo. Bigger an’ better than any picture of any strong man ever made. Put one here⁠—an’ one there⁠—”

“But that isn’t correct anatomy.”

“To hell wit’ that stuff. Put one there, I says.”

“But he’ll be out of drawing, awkward, absurd.”

“Say, listen, do you want ten bucks for painting this sign or shall I give it to someone else?”

“Very well. I’ll do as you say. Only⁠—it isn’t right.”

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, eyeing critically the strokes applied to the cloth. In a semi-finished state was the young man’s picture of the imaginary Hogarth.

“That’s pretty good,” Hugo said.

The young man smiled apologetically. “It isn’t quite right. You can see for yourself you have no muscles there⁠—and there. I suppose you’re Hogarth?”

“Yes.”

“Well⁠—I tried to explain the anatomy of it, but Mr. Smoots says anatomy doesn’t matter. So here we go.” He made a broad orange streak.

Hugo smiled. “Smoots 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.”

The youth looked up from his work. “Good God, don’t tell me you’re really Hogarth!”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Well⁠—well⁠—I⁠—I guess it was your English.”

“That’s funny. And I don’t blame you.” Hugo realized that the young sign-painter was a person of some culture. He was about Hugo’s age, although he seemed younger on first glance. “As a matter of fact, I’m a college man.” Smoots had moved away. “But, for the love of God, don’t tell anyone around here.”

The painter stopped. “Is that so! And you’re doing this⁠—to make money?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll 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