After the performance I hurried around the tent, and you may be sure there was rejoicing that made the manager and other fellows laugh.

George haled me off with him down the street. He cleared the ground with that crutch and wooden leg like a steam-engine. “Come! come along!” he cried: “I’ve something to show you, Loper.”

He took me to a quiet boarding-house, and there, in a cosy room was Susy with a four-year-old girl.

“We were married as soon as I could hobble about,” he said, “and she goes with me and makes a home wherever I am.”

Susy nodded and blushed and laughed. “Baby and I,” she said.

“Do you see Baby? She has her father’s eyes, do you see?”

“She is her mother, Loper,” said George—“just as innocent and pure and foolish—just as sure of the Father in heaven taking care of her. They’ve made a different man of me in some ways—a different man,” bending his head reverently.

After a while I began, “You did not stay with—?”

But Balacchi frowned. “I knew where I belonged,” he said.

Well, he’s young yet. He’s the best Hercules in the profession, and has laid up a snug sum. Why don’t he invest it and retire? I doubt if he’ll ever do that, sir. He may do it, but I doubt it. He can’t change his blood, and there’s that in Balacchi that makes me suspect he will die with the velvet and gilt on and in the height of good-humour and fun with his audience.