“I give up,” answered Bobby. “But come on. We came here to see the show.”
CHAPTER VII
A SUDDEN SHOCK
The billboards advertising this particular circus had not been of a very modest or retiring description, but for once the show almost came up to the lurid praises sung so enthusiastically by the press agent.
There was not such a wide variety of acts as the biggest circuses present, but all the acts there were seemed to be of the best quality. The acrobats performed marvelously on their dizzy, swinging trapezes, the clowns evoked the usual laughter, and the trained animal acts were good. Among the cleverest of these was the act of the old Eskimo with his trained walrus. This animal seemed gifted with almost human intelligence. It balanced itself on rolling barrels, juggled canes, and went through the whole performance as though it thoroughly enjoyed the doing of it, which it probably did. After each successful trick the old Eskimo would throw the walrus a small fish, which it would catch in mid-air and swallow in one gulp, and then go on to the next act with renewed enthusiasm.
When the act was over the audience applauded vigorously as the walrus flopped in its clumsy way back into its cage.
“Gee,” laughed Bobby, “one of those fellows would make a fine pet, if only he were a little more lively on his feet. I’ll bet you could teach him to do almost anything.”
“He seems to have a lot more brains than some people I know,” observed Billy Bassett. “I’m not naming any names, of course, but if that remark happens to apply to any of you fellows, I can’t help that.”
“Well, it’s pretty certain that walrus never tried to make up a joke in his life, and that proves that he’s got more sense than you,” retorted Bobby.
“That’s a true word, Bobby,” observed Fred, grinning, while Billy cast desperately about for a suitable retort. “Give me a walrus rather than a jokesmith any day in the year.”