you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any
one of the girls' Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the
parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse
me; I've got a serious case outside to look after."

After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay
came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn
man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple
sugar home to two small daughters from every 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."