Suddenly the crowd fell away. One man was facing him. The unconscious smile was still on the boy's lips as he looked into the convulsed face of Braddock. The power to dodge the blow aimed at his face had gone with his wits. He only knew that Christine's father was striking; he could only wait, with hazy indifference, for the blow to land. "I won't have any disobedience here," roared the frantic manager, as he struck out in his bestial rage. "I guess that'll stop it." David was lying at his feet, stunned by the savage blow. "When I say a thing I mean it," shouted Braddock, turning to the stupefied crowd. "He can't hold a jubilee in this here animal tent. Who owns this show, anyway?" He drew back his foot to kick the prostrate boy. Half a dozen women screamed in terror. "Don't do that, Braddock!" cried a level voice in his ear. He whirled to face Colonel Bob Grand. "If you kick that boy I'll shoot you," said the Colonel almost impassively. "Do I own this show or not?" was all that Braddock could howl. "Get him out of here," said Grand, turning to the angry circle of men. "Sober him up or turn him over to the police." "What!" choked out Tom Braddock, his eyes bulging. "You say this to me!" "See here, Braddock, I kept your wife and daughter outside. They didn't see this cowardly trick of yours. You may have to explain to them why you did it. You can't explain to the rest of these people. We don't like brutes." A dozen men crowded forward with threatening mien. Tom Braddock shrank back in mortal terror. "Don't jump on me, boys--don't! I--I'll go out. I'll go peaceable. Let me get out where there's air. I must have been crazy." He almost ran to the sidewall and crept into the open air. As he slunk off among the wagons, he felt himself overwhelmed by a sudden sense of desolation, a sickening realization that he had no friends, and, worse than all this,--that no one feared him! A curious acknowledgment of his own degradation came with the stealthy impulse to go back later on and search for the stub of cigar that had dropped from his mouth during the encounter. In the dressing-tent, a few minutes after the proprietor's brutal exhibition, David Jenison sat in the center of a wondering, superstitious group. Not one, but nearly all of them attributed his good fortune to the working of some spell peculiarly brought about by the influence of certain "signs." The champion bareback rider recalled that David had found a horseshoe no longer ago than ten days. The Iron-jawed woman substituted the black cat charm, while Mademoiselle Denise held out for the virtues of occasional encounters with Ernie Cronk, the hunchback, whose hump he must have touched surreptitiously, no doubt. Only Joey and Ruby and Casey looked wise and said nothing. Dick was the luck-piece that brought it all about.