“You mean—you swear to goodness,” Dan’s voice sunk to an excited whisper, “you rubbed tonic on—on a tiger?” Thurley nodded carelessly; she saw no cause for agitation. “Yes, they need a lot—almost as much as the giraffe—his neck’s so long. After we used pails of it on the giraffe, he died—wasn’t that tough beans? The men holds ’em and we keep pouring it on and rubbing it on—they get real used to it after awhile—most of ’em haven’t any teeth anyhow. I wouldn’t be scared of any circus animal, if I had a pail of our tonic with me—they all know it for an old friend. It comes in a big, red pail labelled ‘Ma Thorpe’s Sheep Dip—Cures Man and Beast Alike.’ Why, one clown was the baldest thing you ever saw and he nearly beat the Sutherland Sisters at their own game when spring came, and the bearded lady never sat down for a moment that she wasn’t dipping her hand in a little saucer of it and rubbing it on her chin.” “I declare,” sighed Dan, fairly writhing with envy. “What else do you do?” “Paint the props over, and the clown practises his shines, and Ma and the bearded lady went over all the property tights and costumes and darned and washed ’em and sewed on new spangles. It was like a real family. You know,” she edged up confidentially, “I always played that it _was_ a family—with the india-rubber man and his wife for the father and mother, and the clowns and acrobats for uncles and aunts, and all the animals—except the snakes—were my brothers and sisters. I played the snakes were out-of-town relations.” “And what were your own father and mother?” Dan managed to inquire. “Merely neighbors,” Thurley said with chilly politeness. Presently Dan sighed, “I wisht you’d stay in this town. Don’t your father or mother ever work or anything?” “They’re sick. I guess I ought to have been their father and mother. All the way here I sung for food and sold tins. Ma didn’t tell but two fortunes all the time. She got a summer squash for one and some lake trout for the other.” “Then you’re dead poor,” the boy was thinking out loud. “Yes, but when I’m big and can sing in a hall and get a dollar a night—then we won’t be poor. We can travel in steam cars and Pa can have all the painkiller he likes, and Ma can just lay on a sofa and read novels and cry.” Dan put his hand in his pocket and drew out some money. “Thurley, I want to honest buy some pans—can I—how much?” “You’re giving me money for something you don’t want!” “By George, listen to her!” he informed the tired horses nibbling at posts. “I do, too—I want to put ’em away for Mrs. Hawkins’ Christmas present.” “She said she didn’t need any. Didn’t you hear?” “But presents ain’t what you need, but what you get.” “I couldn’t—you’re just being nice.” “Well, I tell you—I’m manager of the show and I can pay you to sing, can’t I?” Thurley’s eyes brightened. Dreams do come true, if one is patient. “Yes, I’d take money for singing,” she admitted. “How much?”