“That will do,” shouted the manager. “I’ll give you a trial. You can place yourself under Dick Pomeroy, the head tumbler and bar man. Mr. Reeve, take him to Dick.”
Adam Lambert had scarcely spoken when a tall, finely-built fellow rushed into the ring from one of the dressing-rooms.
“Mr. Lambert!”
“Well, Dick.”
“Broxton is intoxicated again!”
“Indeed! Didn’t you warn him as I told you?”
“Yes, but it did no good. He is so intoxicated he can’t stand.”
“Then he can’t do his brother clown act with Snipper?”
“No, sir, we’ll have to cut it out.”
“Too bad, with Nash on the sick list, too.”