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“How very smart of you,” I said warmly.

“Thank you!”

“You know, Charlie here bailed me out of a jam recently, Miss Warren. He really is a true friend,” Mr. Barnum interjected as the conversation lulled; apparently, Mr. Stratton had run out of rehearsed topics of discussion.

Again, I found his speech a trifle off. “Miss Warren” sounded odd, given how familiar he and I were by now. I wondered why he was acting so strangely; there was no hint of the intimacy that had grown between us.

“True friends are the best friends,” I replied automatically. But Charles Stratton mistook this little aphorism as a compliment; he blushed and shook his head violently.

“No, I was just doing what anyone would do in the same situation. I owe Mr. Barnum everything, and I will never forget it.”

For the first time, I decided, Charles Stratton sounded sincere and unrehearsed. I peered at him, attempting to see beyond the obviously calculated appearance—he tried too hard to resemble a gentleman of the world, with his careful grooming (his odd little mustache glistened as if it had been oiled), the cuff links polished to a gleam. Yet despite his earnestly grown-up manner, his brown eyes were appealingly boyish, almost bashful; I found myself wondering what it had been like to live in the public spotlight since the age of five. It must not have been easy for him; it was little wonder he had learned to cloak himself in practiced attitudes and rehearsed speeches!

Suddenly I felt a tickle along the back of my neck; glancing up, I observed Mr. Barnum observing me. He was not smiling; he looked grave, almost concerned.

There was another knock at my door; before I could rise to open it, I heard a childishly treble voice call out, “May I dare enter the domain of the lovely and popular Miss Warren?”

I immediately frowned, as did Mr. Barnum and Mr. Stratton. What was he doing there?

He was Commodore Nutt, or as he was better known, “the Thirty Thousand Dollar Nutt,” Mr. Barnum’s discovery prior to me. He was a little taller than me, thirty-six inches, from New Hampshire; Mr. Barnum had hoped to present him as something of a copy of General Tom Thumb. So he’d outfitted him, given him a military title—so popular in those war days—and taught him to sing and dance a little.

(I will remind the reader that Mr. Barnum had no need to train me; I came to him with a full complement of talents.)

Commodore Nutt was younger than me by about seven years; he was closer to Minnie’s age. But he acted much older, putting on airs, smoking endless cigars, consuming whiskey with an efficiency that was alarming. Upon being introduced to me, on my very first day at the Museum, he pronounced me “the lovely and popular Miss Warren.” He had thus addressed me, ever since. It was obvious he was enraptured by me, puffed up beyond his years by an inflated sense of self-importance.

“Ah, the lovely and popular Miss Warren,” he said now, as I opened the door, stifling a sigh; he placed his hand upon his heart and bowed deeply. I suppressed an urge to pat him on his head and tell him to run off to play. He was such a boy, not unpleasant to look at, with shiny brown hair and eyes, a mischievous, almost elfin little smile. His voice was not as high-pitched as Charles Stratton’s, yet I could not think of him as anything but a very nice lad—and one who was not earning nearly as much money as I was.

“Pray sit down, Mr. Nutt.” I refused to call him by his military title; his real name was George Washington Morrison Nutt. I felt the tribute to the Father of our Country rather misplaced; there was nothing grand or imposing about this fellow. He capered about the stage like a child on leave from school; for some reason, the audiences enjoyed seeing him cut up so. I could not help but notice, moreover, that his audiences were not quite as big as mine—and he sold far fewer cartes de visites. “Of course, you know Mr. Barnum and Mr. Stratton.”

“Whatever the lovely and popular Miss Warren desires,” he replied, eyeing my other