So they slid down the sheer drop of the rocks till they came to a place where the mountain stream widened out into a tiny pool, and then, forced once more into a trough-like gorge, poured on over the face of the rocks. Here Jim had made a mill wheel on which he had worked many a day. The show boy looked at it admiringly.
“It’s a right smart wheel,” he admitted. He stopped it with one of his dark, slender fingers, and then started it again, and Jim’s tongue loosened, and he told him about all the other wheels he had made, and why this was better than any of the others.
After a time they stuck their hot, dusty toes in the pool and sat there watching the world. The sun and shadow raced over the valley below; a hawk wheeled above their heads; little creatures danced over the face of the pool.
“What’s your name, please?” asked Jim.
“Hi Kitchell.”
“Mine’s Jim McBirney.”
“Are your folks with the show.”
“Sisson, he’s my uncle. He runs the show.”
“Do you do tricks.”