“ ‘You have to learn to look at people. Hardly anybody does that. They stare into people’s faces, but you have to look at the whole person. Fat or thin? Where is the fat? What about the feet? Do the feet show vanity or trouble? Does she stick out her breast or curl her shoulders to hide it? Does he stick out his chest or his stomach? Does he lean forward and peer, or backward and sneer? Hardly anybody stands straight. Knees bent, or shoved back? The bum tight or drooping? In men, look at the lump in the crotch; big or small? How tall is he when he sits down? Don’t miss hands. The face comes last. Happy? Probably not. What kind of unhappy? Worry? Failure? Where are the wrinkles? You have to look good, and quick. And you have to let them see that you’re looking. Most people aren’t used to being looked at except by the doctor, and he’s looking for something special.

“ ‘You take their hand. Hot or cold? Dry or wet? What rings? Has a woman taken off her wedding ring before she came in? That’s always a sign she’s worried about a man, probably not the husband. A man—big Masonic or K. of C. ring? Take your time. Tell them pretty soon that they’re worried. Of course they’re worried; why else would they come to a mitt-camp at a fair? Feel around, and give them chances to talk; you know as soon as you touch the sore spot. Tell them you have to feel around because you’re trying to find the way into their lives, but they’re not ordinary and so it takes time.

“ ‘Who are they? A young woman—it’s a boy, or two boys, or no boy at all. If she’s a good girl—you know by the hairdo—probably her mother is eating her. Or her father is jealous about boys. An older woman—why isn’t my husband as romantic as I thought he was; is he tired of me; why haven’t I got a husband; is my best friend sincere; when are we going to have more money; my son or daughter is disobedient, or saucy, or wild; have I had all the best that life is going to give me?

“ ‘Suppose it’s a man; lots of men come, usually after dark. He wants money; he’s worried about his girl; his mother is eating him; he’s two-timing and can’t get rid of his mistress; his sex is wearing out and he thinks it’s the end; his business is in trouble; is this all life holds for me?

“ ‘It’s an old person. They’re worried about death; will it come soon and will it hurt? Have I got cancer? Did I invest my money right? Are my grandchildren going to make out? Have I had all life holds for me?

“ ‘Sure you get smart-alecs. Sometimes they tell you most. Flatter them. Laugh at the world with them. Say they can’t be deceived. Warn them not to let their cleverness make them hard, because they’re really very fine people and will make a big mark in the world. Look to see what they are showing to the world, then tell them they are the exact opposite. That works for almost everybody.

“ ‘Flatter everybody. Is it crooked? Most people are starved to death for a kind word. Warn everybody against something, usually something they will be let in for because they are too honest, or too good-natured. Warn against enemies; everybody’s got an enemy. Say things will take a turn for the better soon, because they will; talking to you will make things better because it takes a load off their minds.

“ ‘But not everybody can do it. You have to know how to get people to talk. That’s the big secret. That Willard! He calls himself a hypnotist, so what does he do? He stands up a half-dozen Rubes and says, I’m going to hypnotize you! Then he bugs his eyes and waves his hands and after a while they’re hypnotized. But the real hypnotism is something very different. It’s part kindness and part making them feel they’re perfectly safe with you. That you’re their friend even though they never saw you until a minute ago. You got to lull them, like you’d lull a child. That’s the real art. You mustn’t overdo it. No saying, you’re safe with me, or anything like that. You have to give it out, and they have to take it in, without a lot of direct talk. Of course you look at them hard, but not domineering-hard like vaude hypnotists. You got to look at them as if they was all you had on your mind at the moment, and you couldn’t think of anything you’d rather do. You got to look at them as if it was a long time since you met an equal. But don’t push; don’t shove it. You got to be wide open to them, or else they won’t be wide open to you.’

“Of course I wanted to have my fortune told by Mrs. Constantinescu, but it was against the etiquette of carnival. We never dreamed of asking Sonnenfels to lift anything heavy, or treated the Fat Woman as if she was inconvenient company. But of course Zingara knew what I thought, and she teased me about it. ‘You want to know your future, but you don’t want to ask me? That’s right; don’t put your faith in sideshow gypsies. Crooks, the whole lot of them. What do they know about the modern world? They belong to the past. They got no place in North America.’ But one day, when I suppose I was looking blue, she did tell me a few things.

“ ‘You got an easy fortune to tell, boy. You’ll go far. How do I know? Because life is goosing you so hard you’ll never stop climbing. You’ll rise very high and you’ll make people treat you like a king. How do I know? Because you’re dirt right now, and it grinds your gizzard to be dirt. What makes me think you’ve got the stuff to make the world admire you? Because you couldn’t have survived the life you’re leading if you hadn’t got lots of sand. You don’t eat right and you got filthy hair and I’ll bet you’ve been lousy more than once. If it hasn’t killed you, nothing will.’

“Mrs. Constantinescu was the only person who had ever talked to me about what Willard was still doing to me. The Fat Woman muttered now and then about ‘abominations’ and Sonny was sometimes very nasty to me, but nobody came right out and said anything unmistakable. But old Zingara said: ‘You’re his bumboy, eh? Well, it’s not good, but it could be worse. I’ve known men who liked goats best. It gives you a notion what women got to put up with. The stories I hear! If he calls you ‘hoor’ just think what that means. I’ve known plenty of hoors who made it a ladder to something very good. But if you don’t like it, do something about it. Get your hair cut. Keep yourself clean. Stop wiping your nose on your sleeve. If you got no money, here’s five dollars. Now you start out with a good Turkish bath. Build yourself up. If you gotta be a hoor, be a clean hoor. If you don’t want to be a hoor, don’t look like a lousy bum.’

“At that time, which was the early twenties, a favourite film star was Jackie Coogan; he played charming waifs, often with Charlie Chaplin. But I was a real waif, and sometimes when a Coogan picture was showing in the vaude houses where Willard and I appeared, I was humiliated by how far I fell short of the Coogan ideal.

“I tried a more thorough style of washing, and I got a haircut, a terrible one from a barber who wanted to make everybody look like Rudolph Valentine. I bought some pomade for my hair from him, and the whole World of Wonders laughed at me. But Mrs. Constantinescu encouraged me. Later, when I was with Willard on the vaude circuit, we had three days in a town where there was a Turkish bath, and I spent a dollar and a half on one. The masseur worked on me for half an hour, and then said: ‘You know what? I never seen a dirtier guy. Jeeze, there’s still grey stuff comin’ outa you! Look at these towels! What you do for a living, kid? Sweep chimneys?’ I developed quite a taste for Turkish baths, and stole money regularly from Willard to pay for them. I’m sure he knew I stole, but he preferred that to having me ask him for money. He was growing very careless about money, anyhow.

“I was emboldened to steal enough, over a period of a few weeks, to buy a suit. It was a dreadful suit, God knows, but I had been wearing Willard’s castoffs, cheaply cut down, and it was a royal robe to me. Willard raised his eyebrows when he saw it, but he said nothing. He was losing his grip on the world, and losing his grip on me, and like many people who are losing their grip, he mistook it for the coming of a new wisdom in himself. But when summer came, and Mrs. Constantinescu saw me, she was pleased.