At the time they were apparently interested in another fraud who was amusing his audience with side-splitting stories, and reaping a harvest of quarters in return for a fountain pen that may have been worth as much as a dime.
Billy himself kept from facing that way, and he also warned the other not to appear to look too hard.
“See him, don’t you, Hugh?” he asked. “What do you think of the animal?”
“Oh! he’s a slick article, I’ve no doubt, with a glib tongue, and a way of convincing people they must have the stuff he has to dispose of. I can hear him talking, and as you say he’s no ordinary fakir. At this distance I don’t feel any effect of those magnetic black eyes you talked so much about. Where’s the boy?”
“Look a little further to the right and you’ll see Cale,” pursued Billy, who had himself discovered these things with a hasty survey. “He’s leaning against that post, and kicking his toe into the earth while waiting for his cue to push in and buy another bottle of the magic compound that cures all ills.”
“Yes, I see him now, and he certainly does look pretty dejected,” said Hugh. “There’s a sort of slinking air about him too, as if he might be ashamed of what he’s compelled to do, but can’t help himself.”
“That’s what I was saying, Hugh,” declared Billy, eagerly. “He’s sort of weak by nature, and has made some terrible mistake in the past that cuts him to the heart. He might be all right if only we could get him away from that slick fakir who’s using him as his tool.”
“Well, we’ll think it over, Billy,” said the scout master.
“You mean nothing could be done right away, Hugh?”
“There’s no need to hurry,” he was told. “They mean to stay here until the Fair closes Saturday night, because their best harvest will come later on, when people from further out in the country get here. By to-morrow we may have settled on some sort of plan how to offer the poor fellow a helping hand.”