"It strikes me you're not a
common tramp. Wot were you doing 'angin' round this tent, son? Don't
you know you might 'ave got clubbed to death by one of the canvasmen
out there? They're never 'appy unless they're kickin' some poor rube
over the guy-ropes. You wasn't trying to peep into the dressing-tent,
was you?"
A hot flush mounted to the boy's forehead. He arose unsteadily.
"No," he said quickly. "I was trying to find a dry spot. I was tired
out. Let me go now, please. I'm all right." He started toward a flap
in the tent wall.
"Better not go that-a-way," said the clown. "You'll go plump into the
ring. Wait a minute. Are you 'ungry?"
"No," said the boy, but they knew he was not speaking the truth. The
girl in the long red cloak, she of the wonderful eyes, stood before
him.
"Please wait, won't you?" she said, half timidly, half imperatively.
"I will get something for you to eat. It's--it's right over there in
my corner. The cook always brings my father's supper here after the
show begins. He won't mind if I give it to you. He can get more. My
father owns the show."
"No, no," he cried.
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