“Now look here, Jackson . . . ” the manager began threateningly.
“You can’t say nothin’ to me,” was the retort. “My mind’s made up. If that cheap guy lays a finger on that dog I’m just sure goin’ to lose my job. I’m gettin tired anyway of seein’ these skates beatin’ up their animals. They’ve made me sick clean through.”
The manager looked to Davis and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“There’s no use pulling off a rough-house,” he counselled. “I don’t want to lose Jackson and he’ll put you into hospital if he ever gets started. Send the dog back where you got him. Your wife’s told me about him. Stick him into a box and send him back collect. Collins won’t mind. He’ll take the singing out of him and work him into something.”
Davis, with another glance at the truculent Jackson, wavered.
“I’ll tell you what,” the manager went on persuasively. “Jackson will attend to the whole thing, box him up, ship him, everything—won’t you, Jackson?”
The stage-hand nodded curtly, then reached down and gently caressed Michael’s bruised head.
“Well,” Davis gave in, turning on his heel, “they can make fools of themselves over dogs, them that wants to. But when they’ve been in the business as long as I have . . . ”
CHAPTER XXXI
A post card from Davis to Collins explained the reasons for Michael’s return. “He sings too much to suit my fancy,” was Davis’s way of putting it, thereby unwittingly giving the clue to what Collins had vainly sought, and which Collins as unwittingly failed to grasp. As he told Johnny: