this 'un looks different. Shall I call Peterson? He'll wake 'im up
right enough and conwince 'im that the show business is a good thing
to stay out of while he can."

"Don't call Peterson. He is a brute. Rouse him yourself, and tell him
to come inside the tent. Poor boy, he's half drowned. Come, dearie,"
to the girl, "go into the dressing-room. You must not see--"

"He is so white and ill-looking, mother," said the girl, in pitying
tones, her gaze fastened upon the face of the sleeper. The mother drew
the child aside, an arm about her shoulder. Together they watched the
clown's efforts to arouse the boy.

"He may be another Artful Dick, my child," ventured the mother. "Your
father says the pickpockets are uncommonly numerous this spring."

"I'm sure he isn't a thief--I'm sure of it," said the girl eagerly.

She was a pretty, brown-haired creature, whose large, serious eyes
seemed unnaturally dark and brilliant against the vivid coloring of
her cheeks and forehead. The blacks, whites and carmines of the make-
up box had beautified her for the ring but not for closer observation.
One who understood the secrets of the "make-up" could have told at a
glance that underneath the thick layer of powder and paint there was a
soft, white skin; even the rough, careless application of harmless
cosmetics could not, in any sense, deceive one as to the delicacy of
her features. The mouth, red with the carmine grease, was gentle, even
tremulous; her nose, though streaked with a thin, white line, was
straight and pure patrician in its modeling, with fine, quivering
nostrils, now gently distended by sharp exercise in the ring; her ears