“He used to wash the make-up off his face between the two shows,” persisted Murphy. “But now he keeps it on from ten in the morning till night.”
“Well, you never take the trouble to wash the ordinary every-day dirt and grease off your face, and I don’t believe you ever would clean up if it took you the time it does Bobo,” replied Stetson irritably, and Murphy retired, muttering.
But the other freaks had noticed a change in the wild man, too. Between performances Bobo used to play penny ante with the fat man and the bearded lady, both of which gentlemen now tried in vain to lure him into a game.
Saturday nights, also, when the last show for the week was over, the freaks sometimes had a little “feed,” and formerly Bobo had been one of the most jovial spirits. Lately, however, he refused to attend any of these gatherings, and spent most of his time alone.
As Stetson said, though, the freaks were always complaining about one another, so little attention was paid to the grumbling in the side-show tent.
The management couldn’t afford to offend Bobo, for there was no denying that the wild man was the star attraction. He was doing better work than he ever had done before. He didn’t wait for the manager to come to him to begin acting; but as soon as the crowd appeared, he was growling and tearing away at the bars of his cage.
The other freaks complained; for even when the dog-faced boy was making his worst grimaces during Stetson’s description of him, most of the audience preferred standing in front of the wild man’s cage watching his antics.
One Sunday night the attendant, who had been before rebuffed, again sought out Stetson with a new tale of woe.
“Bobo sleeps in his cage every night now,” he declared, “and he’s been in there all day to-day.”
“Perhaps he’s sick,” said Stetson, but he didn’t believe it.