ring
the six months I was out."

"You ought to be pretty well off now, if you have been a candy butcher
for five or six years."

"I haven't a cent, and am owing two hundred dollars in Philadelphia."

"How is that?"

"You don't often find a circus man that saves money. It's easy come,
easy go. But I send money home every season--three or four hundred
dollars at least, if I do well."

"That's a good thing any way. But if I were in your place I would put
away some money every season."

"I could do it, but it's hard to make up my mind."

"I can't see how you can make such sums. It puzzles me."

"We are paid a fixed salary, say twenty-five dollars a month, and
commission on sales. I was always pretty lucky in selling, and my income
has sometimes been very large. But I don't make much in large places. It
is in the smaller towns that the money is made. When a country beau
brings his girl to the circus, he don't mind expense. He makes up his
mind to spend several dollars in having a good time--so he buys
lemonade, peanuts, apples, and everything that he or his girl fancies.
In the city, where there are plenty of places where such things can be
bought, we don't sell much. In New York or Philadelphia I make very
little more than my salary."

"What is there most profit on?" asked Kit.

"Well, I should say lemonade. You've heard of circus lemonade?"

"Is there anything peculiar about it?"

"Yes, something peculiarly weak. A good-sized lemon will make half a
dozen glasses, and perhaps more. But there is something cheaper still,
and that is citric acid. I remember one hot day in an Ohio town. The
thermometer stood at 99 degrees and there wasn't a drop of spring or
well water to be had, for we had cornered it. All who were thirsty had
to drink lemonade, and it took a good many glasses to quench thirst. I
made a harvest that day, and so did the other candy butchers. If we
could have a whole summer of such days, I could retire on a small
fortune in October."

"Do you like the circus business?"

"Sometimes I get tired of it, but when the spring opens I generally have
the circus fever."

"What do you do in the winter?"

"It is seldom I get anything to do. I am an expense, and that is why I
find myself in debt when the new season opens. Last winter I was more
lucky. A young fellow--an old circus acquaintance of mine--has a store
in the country, and he offered to supply me with a stock of goods to
sell on commission in