“Brace up, lad,” said Ormond de Sylveste, in a kindly tone. “At one time I was poor and ignorant, too. But there is always a chance for the most obscure to become the most prominent. I don’t wish to boast, gentlemen, but I venture to say that in my own profession there are few who dare assert their supremacy over me, and——”
“Say, is Bill Potts in there!” a disagreeable voice suddenly thundered. “By Jingo, I thought so! Ketched ag’in! If that fat barker stays here any longer there won’t be a man in the show workin’. I guess Joe’ll expect to be President of the United States next. I don’t want no idlin’ around this tent, understan’, an’——”
“A little politeness, sir!” expostulated the bareback rider, with dignity.
“I never heard the beat o’ that,” exclaimed Whiffin. His voice indicated great surprise. “Even Bill Potts is a-borrowin’ nerve from the fat one. You want ter git out o’ them fancy clothes o’ yourn, an’ buckle down to some real work.”
For an instant it actually looked as if Ormond de Sylveste was about to make some fiery retort, but, apparently changing his mind, he bowed to his new acquaintances and strode moodily away, the picture of outraged dignity.
“If you don’t take them there ‘stars’ down onc’t in a while yer couldn’t live in the same tent with ’em, they’d git that uppish,” came from Mr. Whiffin.
“Some allowances must be made for genius,” laughed Dave. “Come on, fellows. I’m almost famished.”
“Be sure to come and see me again,” cried the treble voice of “Little” Georgy.
Outside the tent, Dave led the way to the nearest restaurant with remarkable speed.
“Tom,” he said, “when you become a great physician, if some of your patients have no appetite advise them to take a two or three day course of barking. Boys, I can eat twice as much as before.”