In a twinkling he was transformed into a real scaramouch. A conical
hat adorned the knit skullpiece that covered his black hair.
"Don't peep in the lookin'-glass," said Signor Anaconda, now in the
pale blue tights of a "ground and lofty" tumbler. "You'll keel over
again, plumb dead."
The flap at the entrance was jerked aside and a tall, black-mustached
man peered in upon the group.
"Where's the kid?" he demanded sharply. "My wife said he was with you,
Joey. Say, I don't like this business. They're out in front now,
looking for him. Two of 'em. Have you let him get away?"
David, peering from behind the real clown, experienced an
instantaneous feeling of aversion for Braddock, the proprietor. Even
as he quailed beneath the new peril that asserted itself in no vague
manner, he found himself wondering how this man could have come to be
the husband of his lovely benefactress.
"He's here, Tom," announced Grinaldi, shoving the boy forward.
"What's he doing in that costume?" demanded the owner, dropping the
flap and staring hard at the boy.
"His clothes were wet. Besides, if they come botherin' around back
'ere, Tom, they won't be so likely to reckernise him in these--"
"Say, do you suppose I'm going to get into a muss with these people by
hiding a murderer?" snapped Braddock.
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