If a cop ever stops you and begins asking questions, just you tell him
you're a performer. You can always prove it, whether you are one or
not." He drew forth a short black pipe. "Heigho! I'm glad to be back
with the show." There was a world of satisfaction in the way he said
it.
"Are you a performer?" asked David, glancing out of the corner of his
eye at the long, supple figure. The fellow was filling his pipe.
Dick Cronk laughed softly. "Yes. I've been performing on the
perpendicular bars for the past two weeks. Not the horizontal bars,
mind you. Banks and Davis do that act. Climbing up and down the bars
has been my job lately."
"You mean?"
"Even the innocent must suffer sometimes," quoth the nonchalant
philosopher. It was sharply revealed to David that he had been in
jail.
Three abreast they moved down the main street of the town, soon
mingling with the throngs of country people in the neighborhood of the
public square. Dick Cronk's hands were in his trouser pockets; his
shoulders were thrown back, his chin elevated, his long legs stepping
out freely, confidently. His stiff black hat was cocked airily over
his right ear.
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