“I’d like to continue the conversation, Monsieur Randolpho,” he remarked, pleasantly, “but I haven’t an instant to lose.”
“Ah, you must of the show something learn, ees that not it? Well, I wish you a grand success.”
As Dave started off in search of Mr. Whiffin a rather curious sensation began stealing over him. The lot had assumed an appearance of life and gaiety such as it had perhaps never known before in all its existence. The insistent cries of peanut, pretzel and lemonade venders, the shrill yells of children, the rough voices of men calling to one another and the awesome snarls and growls which occasionally came from the menagerie tent kept up a never-ceasing din.
And but a short time before Dave had been merely an outsider; but now—that meal sealed the contract—he was to be until night a part and parcel of “Spudger’s Peerless” and something destined to belong to the public gaze. The barker’s stand before the main entrance seemed to assume an importance altogether unwarranted by either its size or gaudily decorated surface.
One quick glance disclosed Mr. Whiffin not far away, gesticulating, his thin, harsh voice raised to a pitch of unpleasant shrillness.
“Hey, you,” he yelled, on catching sight of Dave, “step a step this way. I’m a-waitin’.”
As the newly-engaged barker approached, he saw a much-bewhiskered gentleman, florid of complexion, apparently short of breath, and very wide of girth sticking close to the manager’s side.
“Here’s the fellow, Mr. Spudger,” exclaimed Peter Whiffin, pointing a bony forefinger toward the oncoming Dave. “Says he kin help us out, but I ain’t bankin’ on it.”
The “great and only” Ollie Spudger unbent his ponderous form and began to examine Dave as a connoisseur might search for the good points of a rare piece of statuary.
“Him?—He don’t look the part to me, Whiffin,” he said, with refreshing candor.