And they can find more things to do before they get started! And
then, after the house is all locked up and everything, they've got
to go back after a handkerchief! What does anybody want with a
handkerchief at a circus?
It's exasperating enough to have to choose between going in the
afternoon and not going at all. Why, sure, it's finer at night.
Lots finer. You know that kind of a light the peanut-roaster man
has got down by the post-office. Burns that kind of stuff they use
to take out grease-spots. Ye-ah. Gasoline. Well, at the circus at
night, they don't have just one light like that, but bunches and
bunches of them on the tentpoles. No, silly! Of course not. Of
course they don't set the tent afire. But say! What if they did,
eh? The place would be all full of people, laughing at the country
jake that comes out to ride the trick-mule, and you'd happen to
look up and see where the canvas was ju-u-ust beginning to blaze,
and you'd jump up and holler: "Fire! Fire!" as loud as ever you
could because you saw it first, and you'd point to the place.
Excitement? Well, I guess yes. The people would all run every
which way, and fall all over themselves, and the women would squeal
- And do you know what I'd do? Wouldn't just let myself down
between the kind of bedslat benches, and drop to the ground, and
lift up the canvas and there I'd be all safe.
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