“Only that I’d like to have the job myself, sir.”
The manager looked at the stout boy as though he had never heard anything quite so strange in all his life.
“What?” he snarled. “You—you—get out; go away from here a thousand miles!”
“Give ’im a chanc’t, Mr. Whiffin,” pleaded Joe. “Maybe he kin make good.”
“Make good, nothin’!” growled the other. “There ain’t anything to prewent your goin’.”
“Only a powerful disinclination to drag myself away from Spudger’s Peerless Circus and Menagerie,” laughed Dave. “Come now, Mr. Whiffin”—he changed his jocular tone to one of seriousness—“I know that a barker is absolutely necessary to the success of your show. As Joe says, give me a chance.”
Mr. Peter Whiffin seemed to hesitate. He looked sharply at the boy; then, reaching a sudden decision, crooked his forefinger and turned on his heel.
Dave, with Joe not far behind him, followed the manager into the menagerie tent.
A really delightful odor of sawdust filled the air. Colossus, Titan and Nero stood in a corner, restlessly swinging their trunks, while in the open dens lined up on either side savage animals paced ceaselessly to and fro.
“Now see here,” began Peter Whiffin, cocking his head to one side and looking very fierce indeed, “I wouldn’t listen to yer yawp for eight seconds but for two things: first, you’ve got the biggest nerve of any boy I ever see; an’ second, I do need a barker. But I’m from Missouri—if yer know what that means.”