If I was you, though, I'd go up that alley
there, Brad. It's terrible public here."
"You wicked little brute, you!" cried Braddock in horror, coming to
his feet and drawing away as if from a viper. "You cold-blooded whelp!
I--I never heard of such--"
"Ain't you going to kill yourself?" demanded Ernie, grinning.
Braddock appeared to ponder. "No," he said with eager finality; "not
just now. I've changed my mind. I'm going to have it out with her
first. Then, maybe I won't do it at all."
Without another glance at the hunchback he swung off toward the
dressing-tent. Ernie's scoffing laugh followed him into the shadows.
It was the last straw. He was an object of derision to this thing of
jibes and sneers.
The flush of anger had come back into his bloated cheeks by the time
he had slipped under the sidewall into the dressing-tent. A sense of
loneliness struck him with the force of a blow as he paused to survey
the conglomerate mass of gaudy trappings: the men, the women, the
horses, the dye-scented paraphernalia of the ring. The very spangles
on the costumes of these one-time friends seemed to twinkle with
merriment at the sight of him; the tarletan skirts appeared to flaunt
scorn in his face.
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