"You see I'm the inspector of all them travelin' shows," went on the man. "Ribbans is my name, Hank Ribbans. Every medicine show or other show that comes to town has to git a permit from me, else they can't show. But you're all right, pass on."
An idea came into Mrs. Brown's head.
"Do you have many shows passing through here, with musicians who play to draw a crowd?" she asked.
"Oh, sartin, surely. 'Bout one once a week as a rule. There was one that showed here two or three nights ago—no, come to think of it now, it was last night. There was a young feller—nothin' but a boy—dressed up in the reddest and bluest suit you ever see. And say, how he could play that old banjo!"
"Oh, a banjo! Maybe it was Fred!" cried Bunny.
The same thought came to his father and mother.
"Tell us about this boy," requested Mr. Brown. "We are looking for one who plays the banjo," and he described Fred Ward.
"Well, this can't be the one you're lookin' for," said Mr. Ribbans. "'Cause this feller was a negro."
"Maybe he was blacked up like a minstrel," said Bunny.
"I couldn't say as to that," returned the inspector. "Anyhow they paid for their license all right, and they sold a powerful lot o' Dr. Slack's Pain Killer. Then they went on out of town. That's all I know. Well, you don't need a license from me; so go ahead, folks!"