“If we could find a step-ladder,” began Victor, struggling unsuccessfully to repress his mirth, “it——”
“That’s always the way. I’m the most miserable chap in the whole world.”
Victor lighted a match, and, shielding the fluttering flame in the hollow of his hand, deliberately directed the rays into the face of the giant. They saw a small, well-shaped and extremely boyish head crowned with dark brown hair.
“Well, now, I hope you are satisfied.” The shrill treble held a note of resignation.
“Goodness gracious! How old are you?” demanded Victor.
“Fifteen. And I’m the most miserable chap in the——”
“Why—what’s the matter?” inquired Dave.
“You’d better ask me what isn’t the matter,” answered the young giant, with a long, deep sigh. “Come on—sit down. I do so want to talk to somebody before Peter Whiffin gets here.”
“Peter Whiffin! Who’s he?”
“General manager of Ollie Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless Circus and Menagerie. He doesn’t allow me to talk to people. You see”—the giant, leading the way, paused until he had settled himself on a bale of hay, where, after a great deal of difficulty, he managed to dispose of his long legs in a comfortable fashion—“well, it’s this way,” he went on, dolefully: “Peter Whiffin doesn’t believe in giving anything for nothing. I belong to the show—see? People must pay to look at the giant; so I’m smuggled around in the dark. It’s awful. Mustn’t talk to strangers; mustn’t do this, or that. An’ when anybody does see me outside the tents I’m followed an’ stared at, an’ made fun of. Oh, but I’m so sick of it! An’, do you know——”