“Eighty dollars, Ike!” he whoops. “We own the whole layout now. The Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows United.”
“Eighty dollars for what, Magpie?” I asks.
“Mastadon Carnival Company, Ike. Hassayampa knowed there was no use bucking me. We own everything now.”
“Except brains,” says I. “What does the Mastadon consist of?”
“Why—” Magpie scratches his head—“I’ll be danged if I know. Must be worth eighty dollars. It ain’t reasonable to suppose——”
“Figuring comparative prices, Magpie, you must have got an extra water-bucket for the eighty. What is a carnival, Magpie?”
We ain’t far from Judge Mulligan’s office, so we went over and borrowed his dictionary. It said that a carnival was a time of riotous excess.
“My gosh! We’ve bought a riot, Ike!” exclaims Magpie.
“Not me,” says I. “Don’t blame me. I’ve had a riot wished upon me.”
We didn’t get paralysis of the eyelids looking at our purchase. If the dog and pony show was small, the carnival was the sharp end of nothing whittled to a point. There’s three small tents badly in need of canvas to hide the bare poles. One of ’em has a sign proclaiming it to be—