You don't need to serve this fellow unless you want to.
That's a cinch."
The boy's troubled eyes were filmed with reminiscent terror. "You
don't know him. He is terrible when he is angry," he murmured.
"I don't think it," returned Bucky contemptuously. "He's the
worst blowhard ever. Say the word and I'll run the piker out of
town for you."
The boy whipped up the sleeve of the fancy Mexican jacket he wore
and showed a long scar on his arm. "He did that one day when he
was angry at me. He pretended to others that it was an accident,
but I knew better. This morning I begged him to let me leave him.
He beat me, but he was still mad; and when he took to drinking I
was afraid he would work himself up to stick me again with one of
his knives."
Bucky looked at the scar in the soft, rounded arm and swept the
boy with a sudden puzzled glance that was not suspicion but
wonder.
"How long have you been with him, kid?"
"Oh, for years. Ever since I was a little fellow. He took me
after my father and mother died of yellow fever in New Orleans.
His wife hates me too, but they have to have me in the show."
"Then I guess you had better quit their company.
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