The “grind” had long since outgrown such amusements as the circus. Thoughts of the sawdust arena conjured up before his mental vision nothing but frivolity and foolishness, so a prompt, “I’m with Bob, Vic,” answered the query of the lawyer’s son.
“My name isn’t Bob Vic,” smiled Victor.
The smile presently grew into a laugh of such proportions that he began to slap his knees in the paroxysm of mirth.
“Well?” demanded Bob, somewhat astonished.
“For goodness’ sake, what is the matter now?” asked Charlie. “You’re the funniest chap I ever saw. Cut it out. People are looking.”
“Let ’em look,” gurgled Victor. “Something rich just struck me. Ha, ha! Maybe Brandon could get a job as clown. Ha, ha! Wouldn’t that round face of his look swell touched up with a little powder and paint, eh? He could read some of those famous poems, too!”
“I’ll give the matter careful consideration,” said Dave, good-naturedly. “And you might try for the position of animal tamer.”
“I’m an Indian tamer, now,” piped Victor. He seized Dave’s arm, jerking him around. “You and I are going this way, Brownie. So-long, Boblets. In about an hour we’ll meet you and Blakelets at the wharf.”
“All right,” laughed Bob. “I guess you’ll find us swapping land tales for the sea tales of Captain Bunderley. So-long.”
Victor’s delicate fingers closed tightly around Dave’s wrist.