IF SHE EVER MISCALCULATES BY A HAIR’S BREADTH, SHE’S A GONER, SURE.
And the enthusiastic old gentleman rubbed his hands in glee, as though the death of a performer was a consummation most devoutly to be wished.
THE TRAPEZE ARTIST.
“Do people enjoy such perilous feats?”
“Enjoy em! Enjoy em! Why, bless your innocent soul, a feat ain’t nothin'—won’t dror a cent onless it’s morally certain that the performer will break his neck. This woman I’m after draws crowds every night, because she must kill herself. The trick is so dangerous that men make bets every night she will miss her lucky, and be carried out a corpse. I’m a goin’ to have that woman, no matter what the salary is. She does this trapeze act, and then goes on in the first part of the minstrel entertainment after the big show. Oh, she’s got talent into her.”
“But if the performance is so hazardous, and she should be killed, would it not entail a heavy loss upon you?”
“Killed! Loss! Where was you born? My child, there never was a feat so dangerous that there ain’t a thousand waitin’ to attempt it, and they’ll do it. When Mamselle Zhoubert gits killed, as she will, I’ll hev to hold a lev-vee to decide atwixt the dozen who will want to take her place. I’ll select one of ’em, give her a French name—yoo can’t get on in the perfesh with a English name—and she’ll go on and do it, and do it jist as well. And then wat an advertisement it is! This will be about the size of it:—