“There’s Peter Whiffin.” The giant raised his voice. “Over here, Mr. Whiffin.”
The circus manager, scarcely seen in the gloom, and coming from the direction of the lights, increased his pace, scrambling around obstructions, and giving vent to his displeasure at the weeds and inequality of the ground by emphatic exclamations.
“Well, what’s all this?”
Peter Whiffin had a querulous voice and a manner which went singularly well with it. He was a small man, and Victor’s method of throwing light on the subject by means of a match immediately disclosed sharp features, a pair of shifting gray eyes, a face lined with hollows and wrinkles, and a yellow moustache which drooped despondently at the corners.
“Well, blow me—if you ain’t ’bout the coolest I ever see!” exclaimed Peter Whiffin, when the fluttering flame had vanished. “You’ve got your nerve with you, hey?”
“Always carry plenty of it in stock,” said Victor, calmly.
“See here, Georgy, didn’t I tell you not to gab with every stranger that comes along?”
“I have to talk to some one, Mr. Whiffin; I’m so miserable.”
“Well, well! Says he is miserable! Did you ever hear the like o’ it!” The manager’s tones bespoke the deepest disgust. “Why, ain’t he makin’ more money in a week than most people in a month? Well, well!”
Mr. Peter Whiffin’s emotions seemed to rise to such a point as to almost choke his utterances. He strode to and fro for a moment, then exclaimed: