“Goodness—Ormond de Sylveste?” piped Victor.
“Yes, sir! An’ if anybody kin beat me a-ridin’ I ain’t never seen ’em—fact. Whiffin knows how waluable I am to the show. Why, I’ve had ’im so skeered thinkin’ I was about to leave that he——”
“Hey there, Bill Potts, what’s the matter with ye?” Peter Whiffin, unobserved by any of the three, had approached, his face lined with an astonishing number of wrinkles. “If yer don’t git right out o’ this here tent an’ stay out, Bill Potts, I’ll dock yer for double the time.”
All this was spoken in a low tone; but it proved sufficiently strong to induce Monsieur Ormond de Sylveste, otherwise known as Bill Potts, to leave the spot in undignified haste.
“An’ it’s time for you to climb up ag’in,” added Mr. Whiffin to Dave. “An’, as for you, ye lazy, good-for-nuthin’ scamp”—he faced Joe Rodgers—“beat it! Ye’d have Spudger’s a-supportin’ ye in idleness, I reckon.”
With a grumble of disapprobation, Joe obeyed, while Dave, who was also about to leave, stopped, as Mr. Whiffin again spoke up:
“See here, young feller”—the manager put on his most pleasant expression—“ye ain’t done so bad. Here’s your money and a couple o’ good reserved seats besides.”
“Thank you,” said Dave, politely.
“Jack Gray ain’t got over his cold yit. I think you’ll have to go along with the show to-night.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Dave, a bit startled at the prospect.