The fellow capered into the ring. One stocking came down, letting out a quart of sawdust. One tight split up to the knee as he made a jig step that brought the tears to the eyes of Billy Blow, who, with his boy, had come to witness the show.
Then the fellow sang a funny song. It was funny. His voice was cracked, his delivery dolorous. He began to shuffle at the end of it.
"Faster, faster, sir!" cried the ringmaster, snapping his whip across the bare limb exposed. "Faster, I tell you!"
"Ouch!" yelled the aspirant.
"Come, sir, faster. I say faster, faster, faster! Purely ring practice, my friend. We do this to all the clowns, you know."
With the pitiless accuracy of a bullwhacker the ringmaster pursued his victim. The whip-lash landed squarely every time, biting like a hornet. The aspirant was now on the run.
"Stop! Don't! Help!" he roared. "I don't want to be a clown!" and with a bellow he ran out of the tent, followed by the hooting candy peddlers.
"Well, who are you?" demanded the ringmaster of two colored boys who stepped forward.
"Double trapeze act, sir," said one of them.
"Oh, here you are. Let's see what you can do."