“Hey, Dave—hey! Here’s yer little Buster, right here.”
Victor, intensely indignant, saw the stout boy, who now wore his own coat, attracted by the hail and edging his way through the crowd toward them. Dave’s face was beaming.
“Mighty glad to see you, Vic,” he exclaimed, heartily. He held out his hand. “Can’t stay but a minute; I’m due on the stand again. Surprised, Vic? What did you say, Joe? A bully spiel?—thanks!—Sir?”
This last word was spoken to a thin, melancholy-looking person who had just stepped up by the group.
“My hand, sir! Upon my word, I have yet to hear the eq’al o’ what you done in the barkin’ line to-day,” said the man, in a deep-throated voice. “My hand, sir!”
Dave took it.
“Yes, sir; it’s as far ahead of most of ’em as my act eclipses all the rest.”
“So you take some part in the show, eh?” remarked Dave, with interest. “What’s your specialty?”
The other’s sad visage brightened.
“Spudger’s wouldn’t be much without me,” he confided. “I’m Ormond de Sylveste.”