Every
time that he groaned for the danseuse he took another drink, and when
the time came for him to go to the show, the giant was as drunk as a
lord. The force of habit enabled him to fulfil some of his stereotyped
performance, he emerged from that without disgrace; but when the eight
brawny competitors lumbered on to the boards, his heart sank. The other
artists winked at one another appreciatively, and the manager hopped
with apprehension.
Sure enough, the hero's legs made strange trips to-night. The sixteen
arms pulled him, not only over the chalk line, but all over the stage.
They played havoc with him. And then the manager had to go on and make
a speech, besides, because the "Purse of Gold" aroused dissatisfaction.
The fiasco was hideous.
"Ah, Clairette," moaned the Strong Man, pitifully, "it was all through
you!"
Elsewhere a Strong Man had put forth that plea, and the other lady had
been inexorable. But Clairette faltered.
"Through me?" she murmured, with emotion.
"I'm no boozer," muttered Hercule, whom the disaster had sobered. "If I
took too much today, it was because I had got such a hump."
"But why be mashed on me, Hercule?" she said; "why not think of me as a
pal?"
"You're talking silly," grunted Hercule.
"Perhaps so," she confessed. "But I'm awfully sorry the turn went so
rotten."
"Don't kid!"
"Why should I kid about it?"
"If you really meant it, you would take back what you said yesterday.
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