The
invisible band gave funny noises like a man clearing his throat. There
was still a number of people coming in--some strolling idly, others pulled
along by their excited charges. It was queer, Robert thought, that they
should be excited. The smell of the sawdust made him feel rather sick.
He gave out his last handbill. Nobody noticed him. They took the slip of
paper which he thrust into their hands without looking at him. He went
and stood at the box-office where the big man in riding boots was counting
out his money. It was a high box-office, so that Robert had to stand on
tip-toe to be seen.
"I've finished," he said.
The man glanced at him and then remembered.
"Oh, yes, you're the young feller. Given 'em all out, eh? Not thrown 'em
on the rubbish heap? Well, what is it?"
"I want my sixpence."
"Oh, sixpence I promised you, did I? Well, here's a shilling seat.
That'll do better, eh, what? You can go in now."
"I want my sixpence."
"You don't want--don't want to go to the Circus?"
"I don't like Circuses."
The big man stared down at the white set face gazing stolidly back at him
over the wooded ledge. He tossed the coin indignantly across.
"Well, of all the unnatural, ungrateful young jackanapes----"
But he was so astonished that he had to lean out of his box and watch the
blasphemer--a quaint figure, bowed as though under a heavy burden, its
hands thrust hard into its trousers pockets--stalk away from the great
tent and without so much as a backward glance lose itself among the crowd.
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