“Excuse for what?” Jim crossed slowly to Barker.
“The cook tent was started half an hour late, and the side show top ain't loaded yet.”
“Your wagons is on the bum, that's what! Number thirty-eight carries the cook tent and the blacksmith has been tinkering with it all day. Ask HIM what shape it's in.”
“You're always stallin',” was Barker's sullen complaint. “It's the wagons, or the black-smiths, or anything but the truth. I know what's the matter, all right.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Jim, sharply.
“I mean that all your time's took up a-carryin' and a-fetchin' for that girl what calls you 'Muvver Jim.'”
“What have yer got to say about her?” Jim eyed him with a threatening look.
“I got a-plenty,” said Barker, as he turned to snap his whip at the small boys who had stolen into the back lot to peek under the rear edge of the “big top.” “She's been about as much good as a sick cat since she come back. You saw her act last night.”
“Yes,” answered Jim, doggedly.
“Wasn't it punk? She didn't show at ALL this afternoon—said she was sick. And me with all them people inside what knowed her, waitin' ter see 'er.”