there were even managers who informed the
police, so as to be on the safe side; "traveling with her parents;
childish tricks; nothing difficult."... Ma's indignation knew no bounds:
what nonsense to prevent a great big girl of fifteen from earning her
living! For she aged Lily as much as she could, to obtain the permission,
when no papers were asked for; and she had trained Lily to reply to the
indiscreet questions of the officials: was her trick hard? Was she forced
into doing it? Lily answered mechanically that she liked the bike very
much. And then they allowed her to perform.

As for practising, permission or none, that was nobody's damned business.
And if some old sheep took to bleating--"Poor child, you'll be the death
of her!"--Pa sent the old sheep to eat coke; and it was:

"Up, Lily! Get on your bike! Look alive!"

And the bloomers that Lily wore out! Ma was kept busy in the dressing-room
mending the rents at the knees and patching the seats:

"What a tomboy!" Ma cried.

And this went on for months and months. And then came Chicago; a visit of
Pa's to the agents; and a contract with the New York Olympians, a
variety-show coming from the West and returning to New York by Columbus
and Pittsburg. And new people, new people; stars of every kind: the Para
woman, a rheumatic juggler, who was obliged to change her turn and become
an exhibitor of performing parrots, a ragged, molting troupe, picked up
cheap at second-hand; an infant prodigy who topped the bill, a
boy-violinist, leading an orchestra, too, at fourteen, a pretentious
little humbug trained to make a few movements, while others did the work.
Lily thought him so good-looking she simply couldn't take her eyes off
him. And then she had some big girl-friends who had had love affairs! They
were the Three Graces, gymnasts endowed with bodies like so many Apollos,
honest German faces and a bewildering amount of strength, pluck and
precision....

"What smackings that must have taken!" thought Pa.

But no, their uncle and manager, Mr. Fuchs--a name as famous in its way as
Martello's--was known for his gentleness and adored and coddled and
pampered by the Three Graces, who, at a sign from "Nunkie," as they called
him, joyously rushed to practice, taking a pride in pleasing their dear
Nunkie.

"The old rogue!" said Pa enviously. "He has an easy time of it; whereas I,
with my skinny kitten, damn it ...!"

Well, well, he mustn't complain, as he himself admitt