Snoopie Mitchell—ragged, wandering, independent, but at times despised Snoopie—was as one inspired. Never before had he such a circle of witnesses, and the wine went to his brain.
He flip-flopped frontward clear across the loft from the dressing-room corner into Mrs. Schmidt’s lap, and flip-flopped backward to the dressing-room again; and bowed. He walked about on his hands; and bowed. He stood on his head (“That ain’t fair!” called Billy. “I did that!”) longer than Billy did, and while in that position spit, besides; and bowed. He did the “splits” farther than you could, and kissed his hand, while the spectators murmured various acknowledgments of his posture.
He rubbed his palms and lightly sprang to the trapeze dangling from the beam.
He skinned the cat, but he skinned it twice, and half into the third, and impishly hung poised, while his shoulder-joints cracked and the Schmidt hired girl moaned:
“Howly saints!”
He hung by his toes and threw wide his arms; but, suddenly letting go, with preconceived adroitness fell on his back, amidst muffled shrieks.
He chinned himself, but he did it ten times.
“Come in! That’s enough!” you ordered.
He obeyed you not. Instead, he hung by his knees; he hung by one elbow and swayed and kicked; he straddled the bar and went around it faster and faster; and with feet between hands, soles against it, he went around that way, too.
