As Lloyd glanced back at the acrobat, he saw that what Haxon called the business of the "turn" was in progress, and, familiar with it though he was, affected, as he knew it to be, the sight of it made him wince now and sent cold thrills of terror down his spine. The acrobat, clumsily, uncertainly, with all the hesitant motions of the blind, slowly sought to rise, to get his feet once more on the square board on which he now sat. He lifted the ball of one heel to the verge, and sat there thus crouched in dubitation; then slowly, quakingly he achieved a stooping attitude and at last rose unsteadily to his feet, gropingly holding out his hands, now this way, now that, as if he were doubtful on which side of the mast was the reservoir of water below. There was no need of these feints to heighten the temerity of the feat, and Lloyd had always deprecated them. The realism of this affectation of fright, of uncertainty, of hesitation, was so great that its quiver seemed possible to be communicated to the nerves in serious earnest.
Suddenly the acrobat drew himself to his wonted erectness. He stood, for a moment, motionless. Then he leaped, or rather stepped out into the air, still conserving a standing posture; he turned on his back in the instant of descending, and, with an incredible precision of aim, fell into the centre of the tank of water, the impact sending up jets in every direction and spattering the cheering crowd.
All was laughter and good humour. As the round sleek head and the pink doublet, slashed with red, reappeared clambering over the sides of the reservoir half a dozen brawny arms were stretched forth to help the acrobat out. But he sprang lightly past, dripping like a seal, caught a water-proof overcoat from an attendant's hands, slipped it on, and walking with that peculiar deftness appertaining to light, elastic chaussure, his calves and ankles in their pink tights presenting a comical contrast to the overcoat as his feet protruded below, he took his way through the crowd, along the pavement, and in the direction of the village hotel.
Lloyd drew a long sigh of relief. This was well enough so far—but he had an awful premonition that for some reason some day Haxon's nerve would fail him. That accurate judgment of distances would prove at fault. He would miss his calculation by some inconsiderable fraction, and instead of dropping on the elastic surface of the buoyant water he would fall on the edge of the tank, on his back and break it, or on his skull and crush it. This was a life to lead, Lloyd said to himself, a life to lead, but God be thanked its chief trial was over for the day at all events. His consciousness was sore and bruised. He tried to pluck up heart of grace. The sound of the spielers' cries affected him like the commonplace consolations of awakening at the end of a dreadful dream. When he went down to the reservoir he found the groups near it discussing the narrow margin between success and a heart-rending disaster.
"Ef he hed jes' curved a mite to the right or the lef' his spine would hev been splinters," one voiced the opinion of all.
Lloyd was ordering some heavy planks to be laid across the huge trough, the water being some eight feet deep.
"Whut's that fur?" a surly wight demanded, being compelled to give place for the proceeding.
"Some of these underfoot children might come here when nobody is looking and drown themselves."
The man looked at him with a clearing brow. "Fur sech resky folks ez ye 'pear ter be ye air toler'ble fore-thoughted," he said approvingly.
Taking his way back to the sidewalk Lloyd was accosted by an elderly merchant. "The best of your show seems to be free," he said sourly. He had earlier taken occasion to gird at the fair; it was a hindrance rather than a help to trade; it was a novelty, a noisy intrusion, a foolish enterprise, a predestined failure, and he could make no compact of toleration with it. "You ought to remember that thanks are not profits."