racing his lean
knees, staring into the fire, thinking fondly of his absent wife and
family, a furtive tear lurking in the hollow of his cheek, for Matty
Cann's absurd sentimentality made him a failure as a vagabond. Nickie
fussed about gallantly, assisting Madame Marve and little Miss Thunder,
who were busy spreading papers for the evening meal.

Professor Thunder had in Madame Marve a perfect wife for a showman. In
addition to her value as the Egyptian Mystic, a wonder-worker, and teller
of for tunes, she was chief cook and housekeeper for the whole caravan,
but she had a flirtatious disposition, and the attentions Nicholas Crips
offered in his unprofessional moments were received in a spirit of
frivolous appreciation that disturbed the boss showman's complacency at
times.

"Less of it. Less of it, my boy!" was his deep throated exhortation on
such occasions.

All the members of the company had to take a hand in the hard graft and
menial tasks incidental to the upkeep, management and movement of the
show, and neither professional etiquette nor artistic pride could rescue
Nicholas Crips from the vulgar task of preparing comestibles for the
monkeys. But Madame was certainly the most useful artist on Professor
Thunder's salary list, a document preserved with much pride, to be
exhibited in bars and such public places for purposes of advertisement,
and which represented the Egyptian Mystic as receiving L30 per week. On
the salary list Bonypart, the Living Skeleton, was rated at L15 per week.
He actually received twenty-shillings and his keep.

"Professional usage, my boy--professional usage!" explained the
celebrated entrepreneur when Matty Cann drew attention to the
discrepancy. "It's always done in the theatrical business. Bless you, you
don't think we pay our Sarah Bernhardts, and our Cinquevallis, and our
Paderewskis and our Peggy Prydes those enormous salaries that get into
the papers. No; no, we couldn't do it, but we are content to let it be
thought we do. It impresses our public, Bonypart--it impresses our
public, my boy."

Madame Marve produced bread, butter, pannikins, and the familiar
necessities, brought forward the usual boiled leg of mutton on a lordly
dish, large, fat and steaming like a laundry.

"Encore, encore!" cried the Professor.

"Hear, hear!" applauded Nickie, clapping vigorously. Matty Cann even
ventured an expression of appreciation.

Madame Marve placed the mutton for the carver, and bow