"Come, none o' that!" said the man. "You've seen the show, and you've got to pay for it. That's all right, ain't it? Now you hand over them fifty cents, little lady; see? Come! I can't stand foolin' here. I got my business to attend to."
"But—but I haven't it!" said Sue, growing crimson to the roots of her hair. "Somebody—my pocket must have been picked!" she cried, as the truth flashed upon her. She recalled the dense crowd, the pushing, the rough lad who had forced his way between her and Clarice just at the doorway.
"Oh, Clarice," she said, "my pocket has certainly been picked! What shall we do?"
"What shall we do?" echoed Clarice. "Oh, Sue, how could you? I don't see why I let you take my purse. There was a ten-dollar gold piece in it. I might have known you would lose it!" And she began to whimper and lament.
This was poor comfort. Sue turned from her friend, and faced the angry man bravely.
"I am very sorry," she said. "My pocket has been picked, so I cannot pay you. We did not know that we had to pay extra for the side-shows. I hope you will excuse—"
"Not much I won't excuse!" said the man, in a bullying tone, though he did not raise his voice. "You'll pay me something, young ladies, before you leave this tent. I ain't runnin' no free show; this is business, this is, and I'm a poor man."
Sue looked round her in despair. Only vacant or boorish faces met her eyes; it was not a high-class crowd that had come to see the Two-headed Girl. Suddenly a word of Mr. Hart's flashed into her mind like a sunbeam:
"If you are ever in danger away from home, children, call a—"
"Is there a policeman here?" she asked eagerly. "There must be one outside, I am sure. Will you call him, please?"