"That'll do you," snorted the canvasman who had hold of Carl, and thereupon raced him for twenty feet and gave him a shove that turned him head over heels across a guy rope.
"Dot's der vay," mourned Carl, picking himself up and gathering in his hat. "Der tedectif pitzness comes by hardt knocks, und nodding else. Vere can I do some more?"
His head felt cold and uncomfortable, even after he had mopped it dry with a red cotton handkerchief.
He went over to the horse tent. The tent was nearly empty, all the live stock except a trick mule being in the parade. The mule would not have been there, but he was too tricky to trust in the procession. A man with a red shirt, and his sleeves rolled up, sat on a bale of hay close to the mule. The man was smoking.
"Hello, vonce," flagged Carl.
"Hello yourself," answered the man.
"I peen some Idaliano mans," remarked Carl, "und I vas make-a der look for Markaret Manners, yes. Haf-a you seen-a der gal?"
"Take a sneak," said the man.
"She iss-a leedle-a gal aboudt so high, yes," and Carl put out his hand. "I peen-a der poor Idaliano man, aber I gif-a you fife tollars, py shiminy, oof-a you tell-a me where-a der gal iss."
"You can't josh me," went on the man earnestly. "Hike, before I knock off your block."