By the time Grinaldi returned, young Jenison was completely arrayed in
an extra costume of the clown's, a creation in red and white stripes,
much too baggy in all directions, but dry as toast. The owner of the
costume put his hands to his sides and roared with laughter.
"Casey, you serpent," he gasped, "I didn't mean that kind of a suit. I
meant my Sunday togs--the ones I go to church in, when I goes. Which I
doesn't. 'Ere, boys, step right up and listen to an announcement." The
crowd gave attention. "This 'ere chap is wanted. There's a big reward
for 'im. You've all seen the posters. He's the Jenison boy. Well, he
ain't guilty. Get the notion? We Ve got to 'elp 'im out of the
country. Mum's the word, lads. Say!" He stood back to inspect his
charge. "If you're going to wear them togs, you've got to 'ave your
face done over to match."
Whereupon he began to apply grease and bismuth to the countenance of
the amazed young patrician. The others looked on and laughed good-
naturedly. To his surprise, no one seemed to mind the fact that he was
a fugitive and an alleged slayer. They had stared at him curiously for
a moment; two or three of them exchanged whispers, that was all.
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