"I was once. But I'm not looking for that kind of a job now," was the quick answer. "I lost my nerve, I tell you. Handling stakes or driving a wagon would be my limit."
"What sort of an act in the fire line did you have?" asked Joe, for a certain idea was beginning to form in his mind.
"It was a good act!" was the response, and again the spark of pride seemed about to be fanned into a flame. "Got any old-timers in this here circus of yours?"
"Yes," answered Joe. "There's Jim Tracy and Bill Watson and—"
"Bill Watson who used to clown it?" cried the man eagerly.
"He clowns it yet."
"Old Bill!" murmured the tramp. "Him still making good in the business, and me a bum! Well, it's all my own fault. If I'd stuck to the fire-eating and not drinking fire-water I'd be somewhere to-day. Just ask Bill Watson what sort of an act Ham Logan had—'Coal-fire Logan!'" exclaimed the man. "That was my title. Hamilton Logan is my name, but I haven't told any one in—not in a long time," he added, and he looked away. "But ask Bill Watson about me."
"Here he comes now," said Joe, as he observed the veteran clown approaching. "Suppose you ask him yourself."
For an instant Ham Logan hesitated. Then he stepped forward and confronted the old clown. The latter paid no attention at first, evidently thinking the man one of the many hangers-on about a circus ground.
"Joe," began Bill Watson, "Helen sent me to ask you if you have any ammonia in your kit—I mean the kind they give the ladies when their hearts are weak, or something like that. One of the girls has some kind of a little spell, and we can't find the doctor."