Sarah sat up with a jerk.
"Does he own the circus?" she asked eagerly.
"Bless you, no," said Mrs. King smiling, "he doesn't own it, though he has a good deal to do with it, in one way or another. He comes every year to see that the posters are put up and to arrange for space for the tents and some extra help, if it's needed. He goes around to all the towns, ahead of the circus, you see, and tells folks it is coming; and in the winter he does considerable buying of animals and whatnot and hiring of performers, they tell me."
Sarah stared at the silk handkerchief in spellbound fascination. One more question struggled for utterance.
"What is whatnot?" she demanded, her eyes still on the fat man asleep in his chair.
"Whatnot?"—Mrs. King was puzzled.
"You said he bought whatnot for the circus."
"My land alive, didn't you ever hear of whatnot? It doesn't mean a thing—it's just a phrase," poor Mrs. King protested. "I meant Mr. Robinson buys little tricks and novelties and small side-show stuff like that."
Sarah nodded absently, though she had no very clear idea of the good lady's meaning even then. When Mrs. King went away presently, murmuring that it was time to put the peas on to cook, Sarah sat quietly in her chair, her gaze riveted to the silk handkerchief.
Suddenly, as she watched, a large and noisy fly also discovered the handkerchief. He decided to investigate, experience probably having taught him that handkerchiefs may be used to conceal a set of sensitive features.