“Yes,” I answered.
“Well,” snapped the ring-master savagely, “I want you to go on for Walhalla’s turn.”
“Whaat!” I gasped. “Walha—!” I was so astonished that I almost took to my heels. Walhalla and Faust were our two funniest clowns, who kept the natives roaring with delight for more than an hour each day. My companions were so overcome that they laughed aloud behind me.
“Here, you!” cried the ring-master, whirling upon them. “Go over and brush the flies off that elephant! An’ keep ’em brushed off! D’ye hear me!”
“Now, then, Franck,” he went on to me, “Walhalla has a fever. Now—”
“But I’m no circus man!” I argued.
“Oh, nonsense!” said the ring-master. “You’ve been with us long enough to know Walhalla’s tricks, and you can learn how to do them in a couple of rehearsals.”
“There’ll be ten chips a day in it,” put in the manager.
“Eh—er—ten rupees!” I choked. (That was more than three dollars and a quarter.) “All right, sir. I’ll make a try at it.”
“Of course,” said the manager. “Now go and get tiffin, and be back in half an hour. I’ll have Faust here for a practice.”