“ARE YOU WORKING FOR THE CIRCUS?”
“Come, come!” interposed Dave. “This won’t do.” A touch of authority in his tone stopped a hot reply from Victor. “Are you working for the circus?—Yes? Well, what is your name?”
“Me name is Mister Joe Rodgers.”
This answer, accompanied by an expansive grin and a wink, to Victor’s utter astonishment and disgust, brought forth a low chuckling laugh from the stout boy.
“Come on, Brandon,” urged Victor, stiffly. “You’re keeping the water-carrier from his job.”
“Say, ain’t them clothes o’ hisn somethin’ fine? Bet he never did a lick o’ real work in his life. D’ye know what a pay envelope looks like, bub?”
Victor brandished his small white fists furiously and dashed in front of the circus boy. But Dave, quickly springing between the two, prevented actual hostilities.
“Cut it out, Victor,” he said, sternly.
“Get away, you big lump!” howled young Collins. “Take his part—that’s right. You’ve got a yellow streak a yard wide.”
“By gum, him an’ Peter Whiffin ’ud make a fine pair this mornin’,” exclaimed “Mister Joe Rodgers,” with a long, critical stare at the lawyer’s son. “Ha, ha! Whiffin can’t find no barker; he’s up ag’in it bad. Him an’ him”—he indicated Victor—“is sure like cats that’s had their tails trod on hard. I’d like to cool ’em off with this bucket o’ water. I’m a purty good feller, I am; I ain’t a bit perwerse. But don’t nobody rile me.”