“And you,” declared Buck, “are Brick Avery, inventor of the dancing turkey and captor of the celebrated infant anaconda—side-show graft with me for eight years.”
He put up his hand, and the stranger took it for a solemn shake, flinching at the same time.
“How long since?” pursued Buck.
“Thirty years for certain.”
“Yes, all of that. Let’s see! If I remember right, you threw up your side-show privilege with me pretty sudden, didn’t you?” His teeth were set hard into his cigar.
The man on the van scratched a trembling forefinger through a cheek tuft.
“I don’t exactly recollect how the—the change came about,” he faltered.
“Well, I do! You ducked out across country the night of the punkin freshet, when I was mud bound and the elephant was afraid of the bridges. You and your dancin’ turkey and infant anaconda and a cage of monkeys that wasn’t yours and—Her!” He shouted the word. “What become of Her, Brick Avery?”
He seized a spoke of the forewheel and shook the old vehicle angrily. The spoke came away in his hand.
“Never mind it,” quavered the man. “We’re all coming to pieces, me and the whole caboodle. Don’t hit me with it, though!”