“What—what!” he gasped. “You’re kiddin’ me, for sure.”
“Oh, no; I mean it, Joe.”
“But say, what does a feller wearin’ clothes like them you’ve got on want with a job?” The idea apparently staggered “Mister” Joe Rodgers. He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. “Aw, git out!” he sniffed, after a moment of deep reflection. “Ye can’t git across with no sich stuff as that.”
It took Dave five minutes of valuable time to make Joe credit the earnestness of his intention. But once convinced, Joe immediately became the historian’s enthusiastic ally.
“But—but I don’t believe ye kin do it,” he said, doubtfully.
“Lead me to Whiffin, and we’ll see,” laughed Dave.
After a short search they found the manager of “Spudger’s Peerless” at the entrance to the main tent.
“Well?” he demanded, as Dave spoke up.
“I understand that you need the services of a good barker,” began Dave.
“What’s that to you?” demanded Peter Whiffin, in a querulous tone, arching his eyebrows in surprise.