“Oh, I say, Brownie, it’s beginning to rain again,” broke in Victor, complainingly. “Isn’t that the meanest luck?”
“Here’s sumphin what’ll help keep it off them pretty duds o’ yourn, Buster,” grinned Joe. From the back of the seat he extracted an oilskin cover and a huge umbrella. “Sneak in clos’t, fellers,” he commanded when the latter had been opened. “Then none o’ youse won’t be drownded.”
Joe was handling the reins with remarkable skill; the big wagon rumbled along the street at good speed; and, on looking back, Dave could see, barely perceptible in the gloom, several others following.
“Say, Joe,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “are you any relation to Mr. Whiffin?”
“I sure ain’t,” answered Joe.
“How does it happen that you’re working in the circus?”
“’Cause when I weren’t no more’n twelve years old I was left an orphan—understan’? So off I goes to me fadder’s sister; an’ I stays with her an’ her husban’ a spell.”
“Didn’t you like it?”
“Like it? I should say not!” snorted Joe. “I eats too much for ’em. One day me an’ him has some words ’bout it; an’ he up an’ says: ‘Git right out o’ here, ye young cub.’ So I up an’ gits—see? I’m a purty good feller, I am; but don’t nobuddy rile me.”
“I understand,” said Dave, gravely. “What did you do next?”