Even Thomas Braddock was swayed, convinced by the eloquence of that fierce appeal. He stared at the boy, his lips apart, his cigar hanging limply from one corner of his mouth.
"By thunder!" he murmured, frankly surprised in himself. "I believe the tale, hang me if I don't!"
But David was waiting only for the verdict of the woman. Mrs. Braddock had not glanced at the envelope that she now clutched in her tense fingers; her eyes were only for the eager, chalk-colored face of the boy. Tears welled up in her warm eyes as he paused for breath.
"I believe you, too—yes, yes, my boy, we all believe you," she cried, putting out her hand to him. He snatched it up and kissed it.
At that instant the ringmaster, white with rage, dashed in from the big tent.
"Say, what's the matter with you loafers?"
The crowd of tumblers jumped out of the trance as if shot.
"The show's been held up for ten minutes! Get in there all of you!" Here followed a violent explosion of appropriate profanity. "The audience is gettin' wild. They'll be wantin' their money back unless the performance goes on purty blamed—"
Braddock reached the man's side in three steps. He delivered a resounding slap on the ringmaster's cheek, almost knocking him down. The tall hat went spinning away on the ground. Tears of pain and terror flew to the fellow's eyes. He began to blubber.
"Don't you swear in the presence of my wife and daughter,—you!" snarled Braddock, his own blasphemy ten times as venomous as the other's.