town he played. Vincente had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their peripatetic friend.
“Bob,” said Vincente in his serious way, “I’m glad it’s no worse. The little lady is wild about you.”
“Who?” asked Hart.
“Cherry,” said the juggler. “We didn’t know how bad you were hurt; and we kept her away. It’s taking the manager and three girls to hold her.”
“It was an accident, of course,” said Hart. “Cherry’s all right. She wasn’t feeling in good trim or she couldn’t have done it. There’s no hard feelings. She’s strictly business. The doctor says I’ll be on the job again in three days. Don’t let her worry.”
“Man,” said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face, “are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry’s crying her heart out for you—calling ‘Bob, Bob,’ every second, with them holding her hands and keeping her from coming to you.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. “The sketch’ll go on again in three days. I’m not hurt bad, the doctor says. She won’t lose out half a week’s salary. I know it was an accident. What’s the matter with her?”
“You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool,” said Vincente. “The girl loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What’s the matter with you? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you.”
