“Millie Gonzales.”
“She’s the one. She’s got your ring.”
“I thought you might know,” Johnny said quietly.
Pant shot him a quick glance. “Somebody been talking?”
“Not so you’d need be alarmed. But, say, now I know she’s got it, how am I to get it from her?”
“That’s up to you,” retorted Pant.
“It’s strange,” said Johnny a little later; “last night I dreamed that the circus train was wrecked, all shot to smithereens! And the animals—they were having the time of their lives, fighting each other and eating folks up.”
“If that ever happens,” Pant gripped his arm hard, “if it ever does, you get that big black cat! Get the black cat! See? He’s a bad one; a man-eater. Got a record. A bad one. See?”
Johnny nodded, and thought again of the story Pant was to tell him of that same black cat and the jungles of India. But there was no time for it now; the show would soon begin, and then would come the great event, his try-out.
It came. All too soon he found himself marching down the sawdust trail. Dressed in his tightly fitting green suit, and closely followed by the bear, he felt foolish enough. He was a trifle awed by the immense throng, too. He had been in many a boxing match, but never one like this. In those other matches he had had men for opponents, and mostly men as spectators. Here it was far different.