Andy looked at the little brown pony and the green cart picked out with red—it certainly was marvellous at the price.
“Look here. I’ll just ask Mr. Thorpe or Mr. Werrit——” he said, turning to go back.
Sam put a hand on his arm.
“Excuse me, sir, but this is a private job—very private. This gentleman doesn’t want any one to know he has to sell the cart. Says it would ruin his circus right off. I only heard by accident, and he’s bound me over to keep quiet. Any honourable man would keep quiet under them circumstances.”
“Of course,” said Andy uneasily.
“Fact is,” said the man, “it’s twenty pound down now or nothing. Theatrical business is like that—all of it. One day a thousand means nothing to you and the next day you’ll sell your soul for a five-pound note.”
“But I do not wish to take advantage——” began Andy with the air Sam knew and dreaded, for it upset his calculations because it was an unknown quantity.
“You aren’t taking advantage,” he interposed, with bluff honesty, as man to man. “It doesn’t matter to me—only I’ve been in a bit of an ’ole myself at times, and I thought I’d do this chap a good turn and you too, if I could. Don’t often get such a chance. But I don’t care, not for myself, I don’t.”
He put his hands into his pockets, whistled mildly a favourite air, and, as it were withdrew.
“I’ll own,” said the circus-owner reluctantly, “that you’ll be doing me a good turn if you take it. So you needn’t keep back on that account.”