“Pass right in, gentlemen and ladies,” said the ill-looking youth in his monotonous yell, bustling as if he had a rush of business, “and make room for the crowd, all anxious to see the only pig-headed man in America, and to hear the wonderful warblings of Fairy Carrie, the child vocalist. Admission fixed at the low figure of fifteen cents per head,” said the ill-looking youth, dropping change into Robert's hand and hustling him upon the heels of Corinne who craned her neck toward the inner canvas. “Only fifteen cents, gentlemen, and the last opportunity to see the pig-headed man who alone is worth the price of admission, and has been exhibited to all the crowned heads of Europe. Fifteen cents. Five three cent pieces only. Fairy Carrie, the wonderful child vocalist, and the only living pig-headed man standing between the heavens and earth to-day.”
But when aunt Corinne had reached the interior of the tent, she turned like a flash, clutched Robert Day, and hid her eyes against him. A number of people standing, or seated on benches, were watching the performances on a platform at one end of the tent.
“He won't hurt you,” whispered Robert.
“Go 'way!” whispered aunt Corinne, trembling as if she would drive the mere image from her thoughts.
“It's the very thing I saw at the camp,” whispered Robert.
“Le's go out again.”
“I want my money's worth,” remonstrated Robert in an injured tone. “And now he's pickin' up his things and going behind a curtain. Ain't he ugly! I wonder how it feels to look that way? Why don't you stand up straight and act right! Folks'll notice you. I thought you wanted to see him so bad!”
“I got enough,” responded aunt Corinne. “But there comes the little girl. And it's the little girl I saw in the wagon. Ain't she pretty!”
{Illustration}
“She ain't got a pig's head, has she?” demanded aunt Corinne.