“Good!” The manager even smiled. “How much did you pay for your ticket, young feller?”
“A quarter,” answered Victor.
“Here it is.” A coin was thrust into his hand. Then Mr. Peter Whiffin exclaimed, briefly, to Dave: “Hustle back to your job now. I’ll see ye later.” And he was off.
Victor had been primed with numerous questions to hurl at the Rambler but was forced to wait until Dave reappeared, fifteen minutes later, this time in his street clothes.
“I needn’t talk any more now,” he explained. “Mr. Spudger says there are as many people inside the tent as the law allows.”
Victor soon learned all he wished to know. Unconsciously, his manner toward Dave had undergone a decided change. A boy who could calmly face an audience the way the “Big Indian” had done was worthy of a certain respect. An idea—but a very vague idea, it is true—of his own limitations, of his own shortcomings, for the first time, perhaps, stole into his head.
In a small tent adjoining the menagerie the two found that Adolphus and Zingar were the principal attractions. They had scarcely entered when the youthful giant recognized them, and, disregarding all rules of professional ethics, called loudly for both to come over.
“Little Georgy” was arrayed in a gorgeous military uniform of no known epoch, plentifully besprinkled with gilt braid and big shiny buttons. A sword dangled from his side, while a hat suggestive of Napoleon’s famous head-gear was perched on his head.
“Goodness! I’m glad to see you again,” warbled the giant, in his childish treble. “Smitty says—er—er—I mean Zingar says Potts—er—er—I mean Ormond told him you’d made a big hit. Ouch—look out!”
An inquisitive urchin, having decided in his own mind that Adolphus was perched upon wooden supports, had boldly, but without malice, deliberately kicked him on the shins.