on the ground with a dull thump, which was heard all over the immense
auditorium. He remained a second or two motionless, then sprang to his
feet, and as quickly sank to the ground again. The ring attendants and
two or three gymnasts rushed to him and took him up. The clown, in
evening dress, personating the mock ringmaster, the conventional spotted
merryman, and a stalwart gymnast in buff fleshings, bore the drooping
form of the favorite in their arms, and, followed by the bystanders, who
offered ineffectual assistance, carried the wounded man across the ring
and through the draped arch under the music gallery. Under any other
circumstances the group would have excited a laugh, for the audience was
in that condition of almost hysterical excitement when only the least
effort of a clown is necessary to cause a wave of laughter. But the
moment the wounded man was lifted from the ground, the whole strong
light from the brilliant chandelier struck full on his right leg
dangling from the knee, with the foot hanging limp and turned inward. A
deep murmur of sympathy swelled and rolled around the crowded
amphitheatre.

I left the circus, and hundreds of others did the same. A dozen of us
called at the box-office to ask about the victim of the accident. He was
advertised as "The Great Polish Champion Bareback Rider and Aerial
Gymnast." We found that he was really a native of the East, whether Pole
or Russian the ticket-seller did not know. His real name was Nagy, and
he had been engaged only recently, having returned a few months before
from a professional tour in North America. He was supposed to have
money, for he commanded a good salary, and was sober and faithful. The
accident, it was said, would probably disable him for a few weeks only,
and then he would resume his engagement.

The next day an account of the accident was in the newspapers, and