“Then a few tumbles won’t hurt you any. Can you hold a man of twelve stone on your shoulders?”
I made a brief mental calculation; twelve times fourteen—one hundred and sixty-eight pounds.
“Sure,” I answered.
“Well,” snapped the ringmaster, savagely, “I want you to go on for Walhalla’s turn.”
“Whaat!” I gasped; “Walha—!” In my astonishment I had all but taken to my heels. Walhalla and Faust were our two clowns, and the joy with which the antics of the pair were greeted by the natives kept them more in evidence than any other performer. My companions roared with delight at the fancied jest.
“Here! You swipes,” cried the ringmaster, whirling upon them; “go over and brush the flies off that elephant! An’ keep ’em brushed off! D’ye hear me!”
“Now, then, Franck,” said the proprietor—this sudden rise in the social scale had given me even the right to be addressed by name—“Walhalla has a fever. Out for good, I suppose. Damn it, Casey!” turning to his right-hand man, “I’m always losing my exhibits. Look at this trip! My best bare-back skirt dies of cholera in Singapore. My best cycler breaks his neck in Rangoon. The plague walks off with my best trap man in Bombay—damn the hole! Why in hell is it always the stars that go? Now it’s Walhalla. Five turns cut out already. If we lose any more, we’re done for. We can’t, that’s all. Now—”
“But I’m no circus man!” I protested, as his eye fell on me.
“Oh, hell!” said the ringmaster, “You’ve been with us long enough to know Walhalla’s gags, and you can work up the stunts in a couple of rehearsals.”
“But there’s the violin act!” I objected, recalling a combination of alleged music and tumbling that always “brought down the house.”