“My dear boy,” he cried, “I owe you a thousand thanks.”
“No,” I answered; “you owe me five hundred dollars, and I’ll take it in frigid cash. Even a certified check will be scrutinized with suspicion.”
CHAPTER III.
THE CAPTAIN MEETS A RASCAL.
The proprietor of the circus was most profuse in his gratitude. He was a gent who, without exaggeration, could be called effulgent. He certainly had a rush of words to the mouth, but I declined to let the flow of gas overcome me, rigidly insisting on my rights, and demanding that he should make good and cough up. Seeing that I could not be bluffed, he finally extended an invitation for me to accompany him to his headquarters at the circus grounds, where he could renumerate me according to his promise.
“I want you to understand,” he said, “that I am a man of my word. I am Samuel P. Slick, proprietor and owner of Slick’s Mammoth Circus and Colossal Aggregation of Wild Beasts.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Slick,” said I. “I am highly flavored. Lead on, and I will stick to you closer than a porous plaster to a rheumatic shoulder blade.”
Visions of that five hundred percolated through my cerebellum. In fancy I was already fingering various long, green certificates with pictures of presidents upon them. Why, I had that money spent before we even hove in sight of the circus grounds.
Mr. Slick led me to a small tent abaft the main tent. Little Fido followed us cheerfully. As soon as we were inside the small tent, and thus shielded from prying eyes, Mr. Slick sunk his grappling hooks into his trowsers pocket and dragged up a solitary greasy five-dollar bill, which he beamingly offered me.
“Take it, son—take it!” he urged magnanimously. “You deserve it, for that dog of yours is really a wonder.”
“I beg your hasty pudding,” said I, refraining from cleaving unto the fiver; “but haven’t you made a slight mistake?”