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everybody knew of the happenings of the night before. In the cheap seats the silent watcher was rigid, his nails digging into his palms. But Gunga was a subdued elephant, on his best behavior: and Ram Singh welcomed his small playmate, tossing him up like a feather. So much of the turn the crowd knew—but they were utterly unprepared for the undressing scene, and it had all the success lent by surprise. The black-and-scarlet imp capered out of sight on Ram Singh's head amid a house that rocked with laughter.

Jeff kept a careful eye upon his charge that night. He told himself that he was foolishly jumpy—Hugh was quite well, and no further danger could be feared from Toby, helpless in the hospital. All the same—there had been something of shock to him, and possibly the excitement of the ring had not been the best treatment for young nerves. He saw him to bed in their tent after the performance was over. Certainly there was nothing wrong with Hugh: he was in the highest spirits, and undressing turned into a frolic that made hay of all the blankets, producing shouts of mirth that echoed beyond the pitch. Jeff left him, finally, threatening to come back and sit on his head if he were not asleep; and went in search of supper.

He came back when it was over. The tent was dark and silent: Hugh was in dreamland. Close by, Micky leaned against a tree, smoking. He gave a low whistle.

"That you, Mick? He's all right, isn't he?"

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