The fluffy, abbreviated tarletan skirts of
two women bareback riders who stood not more than two yards away
seemed tawdry and flimsy at close range; the pink fleshings of the
world's greatest somersault artist looked rumpled and fuzzy; the
zouave costume of the lady rope-walker lost its satiny sheen through
propinquity; the clown was dusty and greasy and stuffy. An illusion
was being shattered in the flash of an eye.
"I must be moving along," he said, in quick return to apprehension.
"Thank you for looking out for me. It was very kind of--" He swayed as
he tried to arise. The genial contortionist caught him.
"He's hungry!" cried one of the bareback queens. He made a heroic
effort to pull himself together. The innate modesty of a gentleman
reproved him even as things went hazy: he was conscious that he was
staring at the surprisingly large kneecaps of the speaker. He was
vaguely troubled because they were dirty.
A flask of brandy was pressed to his lips. He gasped, caught his
breath, and, as the tears came to his eyes, smiled apologetically.
"It's pretty strong," he choked out.
"Puts snap and ginger into you," said the clown, standing back to
watch the effect of his ministrations.
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