As for that, so did Thomas Braddock. In all his experience
with circus performers he had never known one of them to steal;
somewhat irrelevantly he reminded himself that circus women were
notably chaste. No; David's money was quite safe in that dressing-
tent.
Two full minutes passed before he could whip the conscience into
submission. It was, as it afterwards turned out to be, the last stand
of the thing called honor as it applied to whiskey-soaked Tom
Braddock. Then he shot forward across the black shadows to the side
pole he had been glaring at for a quarter of an hour. Through the
lacings in the sidewall he saw that the section was empty.
When David put his hand inside the lining of his waistcoat an hour
later, he turned pale and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. For an
instant he permitted them to sweep the laughing, unconscious group of
men surrounding him.
"Joey," he said a moment later, taking the clown aside, "my pocketbook
is gone."
"Wot!" gasped Joey. "'Ave you lost it?"
"It has been stolen."
Joey's face grew very sober. "Don't say that, Jacky. It was in your
ves'cut--as usual?"
"Yes.
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