She came up and sat down between them on one of the platform chairs.
“It was the longest time before I could place those names,” she chattered. “‘Buck & Avery, Consolidated Aggregation,’ says I to myself. ‘Buck & Avery,’ I says. And, thinks I, them two old codgers must have gone to Kingdom Come, for I’m—let’s see—I’m twenty, or something like that, years younger than either of you, as I remember.” She poked each one jovially with her parasol.
“‘Buck & Avery,’ says I,” she went on, cheerfully oblivious of their grimness. “‘It’s their boys,’ I says, and so I came right along, for I need the job, and I couldn’t explain the romantic part in a letter. I was thinking I’d surely be taken on when I told Buck and Avery’s sons the romance. But I don’t have to tell you, boys.”
She jocosely poked them again.
“‘A little old!’ you say?”—they hadn’t said anything, by the way, but stood there with gaping, toothless mouths. “Not a bit of it for a jay-town circuit. Of course, it isn’t a Forepaugh job for me now or else I wouldn’t be down here talking to Buck & Avery. But I’m still good for it all—rings, banners, hurdles, rump-cling gallop and the blazing hoop for the wind-up. You know what I can do, boys. Remember old times. Give me an engagement for old-times’ sake.” She flashed at them the arch looks of a faded coquette.
Buck, the poignancy of his ancient regret having been modified by his long course of consolation from the lips of Avery, was the first to recover. This faded woman, trying to stay time’s ravages by her rouge, displaced the beauteous image he had cherished so long in his memory.
“Ain’t you ashamed to face us two?” he demanded. “You that run away and broke your promise to me! You that ruined me!” He patted his breast dramatically and shot a thumb out at Avery.
“My sakes!” she cried. “You ain’t so unprofessional as to remember all that silliness against me, are you? I was only a girl, and you couldn’t expect me to love you—either of you. I’m a poor widow now,” she sighed, “and I need work. And here you have been laying up grudges against me—the two of you—all these years! What would your wives have said?”
“We never got married,” replied the two, in mournful duet.
But she wasn’t in a consoling mood. “You’re lucky!” she snapped. “I married a cheap, worthless renegade, who stole my money and ran away. He fell off a trapeze and broke his neck, and I was glad of it.”