"Won't you sit down, Mr. Sorber?" suggested Agnes, politely.
"Don't care if I do, Miss," declared the showman, and took an end of the bench, leaving the other end invitingly open, but Agnes leaned against the tree trunk and watched him.
"A nice old place you've got here. They tell me it's called 'the Old Corner House.' That's the way I was directed here. And so that rascal of mine's been here all winter? Nice, soft spot he fell into."
"It was I that came near falling," said Agnes, gravely, "and it wasn't a soft spot at all under that tree. I'd have been hurt if it hadn't been for Neale."
"Hel-lo!" exclaimed Neale's uncle, sharply. "What's this all about? That rascal been playin' the hero again? My, my! It ought to be a big drawin' card when we play this town in August. He always was a good number, as Master Jakeway in high and lofty tumbling; when he rode bareback; or doing the Joey——"
"The Joey?" repeated the girl, interested, but puzzled.
"That's being a clown, Miss. He has doubled as clown and bareback when we was short of performers and having a hard season."
"Our Neale?" gasped Agnes.
"Humph! Dunno about his being yours," said Sorber, with twinkling eyes. "He's mine, I reckon, by law."
Agnes bit her lip. It made her angry to have Sorber talk so confidently about his rights over poor Neale.