By the time he returned, the world had righted itself again, and he was only a slave.
“I, I’ll be running along,” he stammered, “that is, if you’re all right?”
“But I’m not all right,” protested Gwen. “Besides, I need some one to talk to. Why should you go?”
“You know,” Johnny faltered, “I’m not a performer; at least, not yet.”
“Fiddle!” she puckered up her lips. “What diff does that make; you’re a brave boy. You were right near that awful tiger when I saw you, and you weren’t running away. I believe you were there all the time.”
“I was,” admitted Johnny. “I was watching you dance when he came up.”
“Oh!” She gave him a queer look. “And what did you think you could do?”
“If he had reached you, I could have put up a good scrap.”
She looked at him again. “I believe you could,” she smiled. “I saw you give that bear the knockout the other day. That was good, awful good! Say! You can box, can’t you?”
“A little.”