“Want to be shown, eh?” laughed Dave.
He stepped off a few paces, and, with a wink at Joe, began a steady flow of eloquence, describing Spudger’s great show in the highly imaginative language of a press agent.
“I’ve heard worse,” commented Peter Whiffin, grudgingly, attempting to hide his satisfaction. “Give us another round.”
An expression of surprise on the manager’s face gradually deepened. Dave, thoroughly imbued with the humorous side of the proceeding, and determined to do himself credit, had managed to cast aside all feelings of embarrassment. He raised his voice until its strong, clear notes fairly rang through the tent.
“But did ye ever speak before a mob?”
“I’ve recited in school many times,” answered Dave.
“Well, this job ain’t like speakin’ to a lot o’ kids, mind yer,” warned Mr. Whiffin. “I reckon you’ll feel like takin’ to the tall timber when ye faces a real crowd.”
“I’ll risk it,” said Dave, in a confident manner.
“An’ I’m game enough to take a chance on ye.” Peter Whiffin cast an angry look toward Joe Rodgers, whose joy at the decision seemed altogether out of proportion to its importance. “Ye kin try it this afternoon. But ye’ll need to git the biggest kind o’ a hustle on ye; the show’s goin’ to start mighty soon.”
“All right, Mr. Whiffin. What’s the pay?”