Guy ropes were cut by an attacking force of half-drunken
rowdies; the canvases were slashed and wagons overturned. The oldtime
yell of "Hey, Rube!" marshaled the circus forces. There was a battle
royal, in which the local contingent was badly used up, more than one
man being seriously injured.
David Jenison fought beside his fellow performers, who rallied to
protect the dressing-tent and the terrified women. In the darkness and
rain, after the night performance, the opposing forces mingled and
fought like wild beasts. The young Virginian, vigorous as a colt, was
a hero among his comrades. For days afterwards, every one talked of
the stubborn stand he made at the rear of the dressing-tent, where he
swung a stake with savage effectiveness in combat with half a dozen
rioters who had cut the ropes, allowing the sidewalls to drop while
many of the women were dressing.
He was fighting for Christine Braddock, who was waiting in the tent
for him, instead of going to the hotel with her mother earlier in the
evening. He glorified himself forever in the eyes of the terrified
girl; he was never to forget the soft, tremulous words of loving
anxiety she used, quite unconsciously, while she went about the task
of bandaging the cuts on his face half an hour later in her mother's
room, where many of their intimates had gathered for attention.
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