“Hey, Leddy! Two bits fer thet kid. An’ Leddy—’tain’t polite no more for gents to let women carry ’em aroun’.”
This was the district of “stair-steps,” of thin, narrow-shouldered women, trailed by processions of children, five and six in a line, thin-cheeked, narrow-necked, ill nurtured, and ill prepared, through too fast progeneration, for a chance in life. More than once the manager personally ushered some gaunt family through the gates when the frightened glance of the mother told all too plainly that there were no funds to take care of the progeny which she had hoped to slip past the ticket takers. For us of the circus, there was something pitiable about it all; the big show likes to take misery only for itself. With the result that the owner lost more than one quarter that day, because of persons admitted without a charge.
“Don’t need many ladders aroun’ this country,” said a facetious animal man. “All they have t’ do is line up the kids and walk on their heads. Ever see so many stair-steppers?”
“Shorty” Alispaw, menagerie superintendent, nodded.
“Reminds me,” he said, “I’ve got to be getting rid of a few of my own. Better be advertising ’em pretty quick; some carnival outfit may want ’em.”
He jerked a thumb toward a gilded cage in which romped what appeared to be three rather thin, but otherwise healthy leonine youngsters. I stepped closer.
“They look all right. What’s wrong with ’em?”
Shorty glanced again toward the cage, then looked out toward the crowded menagerie, where mothers still were herding their numerous broods along the sawdust pathways.
“Same as them,” came his announcement. “Stair-steppers. Second litter in a year. Not much difference between them and the humans. Bring ’em into the world too fast, and they’ll be on the bum somehow. Something always showing up after they get grown. Now you’d say those were perfectly healthy cubs, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes—maybe a little thin.”