Now the rest of my story is very muddled, you’ll say, and confused. But the truth is, I don’t understand it myself. I ran on ahead to Mrs. Peter’s to prepare his bed for him, but they did not bring him to Peter’s. After I waited an hour or two, I found George had been taken to the principal hotel in the place, and a bedroom and every comfort that money could buy were there for him. Susy came home sobbing late in the night, but she told me nothing, except that those who had a right to have charge of him had taken him. I found afterward the poor girl was driven from the door of his room, where she was waiting like a faithful dog. I went myself but I fared no better. What with surgeons and professional nurses, and the gentlemen that crowded about with their solemn looks of authority, I dared not ask to see him. Yet I believe still George would rather have had old Loper by him in his extremity than any of them. Once, when the door was opened, I thought I saw Mrs. Lloyd stooping over the bed between the lace curtains, and just then her husband came out talking to one of the surgeons.

He said: “It is certain there were here the finest elements of manhood. And I will do my part to rescue him from the abyss into which he has fallen.”

“Will you tell me how George is, sir?” I asked, pushing up. “Balacchi? My partner?”

Mr. Lloyd turned away directly, but the surgeon told me civilly enough that if George’s life could be saved, it must be with the loss of one or perhaps both of his legs.

“He’ll never mount a trapeze again, then,” I said, and I suppose I groaned; for to think of George helpless—

“God forbid!” cried Mr. Lloyd sharply. “Now look here my good man: you can be of no possible use to Mr.—Balacchi, as you call him. He is in the hands of his own people, and he will feel, as they do, that the kindest thing you can do is to let him alone.”

There was nothing to be done after that but to touch my hat and go out, but as I went I heard him talking of “inexplicable madness and years of wasted opportunities.”

Well, sir, I never went again: the words hurt like the cut of a whip, though ’twan’t George that spoke them. But I quit business and hung around the town till I heard he was going to live, and I broke up my contract with South. I never went on a trapeze again. I felt as if the infernal thing was always dripping with his blood after that day. Anyhow, all the heart went out of the business for me with George. So I came back here and settled down to the milling, and by degrees I learned to think of George as a rich and fortunate man.

I’ve nearly done now—only a word or two more. About six years afterward there was a circus came to town, and I took the wife and children and went. I always did when I had the chance. It was the old Adam in me yet, likely.

Well, sir, among the attractions of the circus was the great and unrivalled Hercules, who could play with cannon-balls as other men would with dice. I don’t know what made me restless and excited when I read about this man. It seemed as though the old spirit was coming back to me again. I could hardly keep still when the time drew near for him to appear. I don’t know what I expected. But when he came out from behind the curtain I shouted out like a mad man, “Balacchi! George! George!”

He stopped short, looked about, and catching sight of me tossed up his cap with his old boyish shout: then he remembered himself, and went on with his performance.

He was lame—yes, in one leg. The other was gone altogether. He walked on crutches. Whether the strength had gone into his chest and arms, I don’t know; but there he stood tossing about the cannon- balls as I might marbles. So full of hearty good-humour too, joking with his audience, and so delighted when they gave him a round of applause.