"I shouldn't think there would be much money made in your business," said Kit.
"That shows you don't know much about circus matters. Last fall I ran in with seven hundred dollars saved, besides paying all my expenses during the six months I was out."
"You ought to be pretty well off now, if you have been a candy butcher for five or six years."
"I haven't a cent, and am owing two hundred dollars in Philadelphia."
"How is that?"
"You don't often find a circus man that saves money. It's easy come, easy go. But I send money home every season—three or four hundred dollars at least, if I do well."
"That's a good thing any way. But if I were in your place I would put away some money every season."
"I could do it, but it's hard to make up my mind."
"I can't see how you can make such sums. It puzzles me."
"We are paid a fixed salary, say twenty-five dollars a month, and commission on sales. I was always pretty lucky in selling, and my income has sometimes been very large. But I don't make much in large places. It is in the smaller towns that the money is made. When a country beau brings his girl to the circus, he don't mind expense. He makes up his mind to spend several dollars in having a good time—so he buys lemonade, peanuts, apples, and everything that he or his girl fancies. In the city, where there are plenty of places where such things can be bought, we don't sell much. In New York or Philadelphia I make very little more than my salary."