“You can do it and you will. My reputation is at stake and you must go up with me and do the fairy act.”
“I will fall and break my neck!”
“No, you won’t—not unless you get too confoundedly nervous, which you haven’t any right to do.”
“Let me do my own act,” pleaded Mart Keene, for such was the boy’s name.
“No, you’ll do as I want you to. We must show up at our best.”
The boy began to cry.
He was a street waif from New Orleans. Porler had picked him up in the French quarter one day and adopted him. He had promised him a good living and some money, but he got neither. He had often abused him, and at times made him do acts in connection with his exhibitions which imperiled Mart’s limbs and life. He did not care what became of the boy, as long as he made money.
Porler flew into a rage when Mart started to cry.
“Shut up!” he cried in a low tone that was full of passion. “Do you want the crowd outside to hear your sniveling?’
“I will stop when you promise not to make me do the fairy act,” sobbed Mart.