For a moment he felt as if she had struck him in the
face, so quick was his pride to resent the slight.
"This ain't a parlor, my lad," said Joey, shrewdly analyzing the
feelings of his _protege_. "You mustn't expect the ladies to stop
and chat with you in the ring. It ain't reg'lar. She didn't mean
nothink--nothink at all, bless 'er 'eart."
When the performance was over, David was whisked into the men's
section of the dressing-tent and told to stay there until further
orders. He changed his clothes and "washed up," listening meanwhile to
the congratulations and the good-natured chaffing of the performers
who were there with him. Despite their ribald scoffing, he knew they
were his friends: there was something about these careless,
inconsequent knights of the sawdust ring, in spangles or out, that
warmed the cockles of his sore, despairing heart.
He came before long to laugh with them and to take their jibes as they
were meant--good-naturedly. Joey Grinaldi beamed with congratulation.
He laid himself out to make the going easy for his "gentleman
pardner," appreciating the vast distinction that lay between these men
and the kind David had known all of his life.
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