Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1, Chapter 6 (5/6) By Frank Beill 1886: Hull, Yorkshire

(1/6), (2/6), (3/6), (4/6), (5/6), (6/6). Part 1 Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. Part 2 Prologue, Chapter 1, 2, 3.

A gang of leering boys surrounded me; all chanting and stamping on the stone flags but one face stood out from the rest: Snelgrove. Once again bigotry was showing its ignorance. Even their insult was incorrect. They were repeating Jolly Rodger's word. I knew it would come back to haunt me. I struggled to sit up. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

Sore palms went up to my mouth to ease the pain. I could taste the dry dirt on them. I was expecting more pain and insults to come. A body fell across my legs. It was Snelgrove but he wasn't trying to jump on me. Standing behind him was George with red hair aflame. His fists were raised ready to take on all comers. 'Who's next?' my saviour demanded. Outnumbered though he was, no one dared take on George Smith when he was angered - not even the oldest boys in the orphanage. 'Come on ... who's next?' Fire blazed in his eyes. They scoured the surrounding mob for would-be heroes but the cowardly gang faded away into the crowded playground. Snelgrove followed, slinking away on all fours like a beaten and wounded animal.

I was hurt but it was neither my sore palms nor my bruised knees that really pained me. What hurt most was that I was still an outsider to majority of the orphanage children despite being resident for nearly two years. I always would be. George was breathing heavily. He held out a hand to pull me back up. 'Got an hankie?' The tone of his voice was still harsh; it always took him time to calm down.

I nodded and stuck a hand into my jacket pocket. 'There's stains on yer cheeks. Don't let 'em see you're crying.' I wiped my face and brushed the dirt from trouser knees. George put a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the result of his visit to Sal: a fluffy, squashed slice of bread and butter. 'Want a bit?' He offered it to me. I shook my head. I was not in the mood to eat. 'What's going on?' An adult voice was enquiring from behind us. One I did not recognise.

We turned to see a thin young man in a dark suit. The shoulders were so wide the jacket hung as though it was still on a coat hanger. Thick round spectacles hid his eyes. It was Mr Jason, a new teacher who had joined the orphanage only a week earlier. He taught the class with the youngest children. 'Nothing, sir!' We replied in unison, the law of the playground forbade us from telling the truth. I grasped the moment. 'Please, sir. Do you read the Eastern Morning News?'

'I'm afraid not. Why do you ask?' He smiled. He did not jump down my throat. This was the usual adult reaction, if I dared ask a question. Don't speak unless spoken to. I paused for a moment but I was desperate. I needed to know. 'I've been told it's in the paper that Buffalo Bill and his Wild West Show are coming to Hull. Is it true, sir?' 'I'm sorry but I don't know ... but I've heard from people who have seen the show in Manchester that it is a truly remarkable spectacle.' There was kindness in this adult's voice.

Continued Next Page

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