"What in the name of Old Dan Rice do you think you've been doing?
Here you've kept a cage with a five-thousand-dollar lion from
tipping over, to say nothing of the people who might have been
killed had the brute got out, and you want to know how you can
earn a pass to the show? What d'ye think of that?" and the owner
appealed helplessly to an assistant who had run across the lot,
having been attracted to the scene by the uproar.
The assistant grinned.
"He's too modest to live."
"Pity modesty isn't more prevalent in this show, then. How many
do you want? Have a whole section if you say the word."
"How many are there in a section?" asked Phil.
" 'Bout a hundred seats."
Phil gasped.
"I--I guess two will be enough," he made answer.
"Here you are," snapped the owner, thrusting a card at the lad,
on which had been scribbled some characters, puzzling to the
uninitiated. "If you want anything else around this show you
just ask for it, young man. Hey, there! Going to be all day
getting that canvas up? Don't you know we've got a parade coming
along in a few hours?"
Phil Forrest, more light of heart than in many days, turned away
to acquaint his companion of his good fortune.
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