"I 'm talkin' about you," he said bitterly, "an' me. If I 'a' been anjthin' but a joke d' you think Pop 'd 'a' let me come with you? Say, gi' me the laugh. Go on, I kind o' miss it."
She straightened her hat. She tucked her handkerchief into her cuff. She stood up. Then she said, looking down at him: "That 's w'y I bumped 'im off the 'orse—fer talkin' that way about you an' me.… Come on. I 'm goin' 'ome."
"Mil!" He caught her hand to hold her. "Is that—is that right?"
Her fingers—the strong fingers of the circus woman—closed on his in a friendly pressure that crushed his bones. "Come on, 'En," she said. "Pop 'll be after us if we don't 'urry."
He replied, in the fervent voice of a lover: "T' 'ell with Pop"—and drew her down beside him. In a moment the situation was clear in his mind.
"G, Mil," he said, in a broken rush of emotion, "if you 'll stan' by me— I did n't care where I went to before, ner what I did. I 'd 'a' gone back with Harry an' give up. But if you 'll stan' by me—I 'm on the right track. I know I am. There 's never been a clown—a good one—that 's done the knockabout. It 's been imitatin' life with them—the same as with me. I c'n make good. I c'n make good without him—Harry. You need n't be ascared o' that."
"I 'm not ascared," she said. She asked, in another tone: "Do you like me, 'En—much?"
He drew a long breath, as if to get a grip on his
