The man was James Sparling, owner of the Sparling Combined Shows.
Mr. Snowden sprang up, surprise written all over his face.
"Why, Mr. Sparling!" he greeted the caller. "I did not
expect you."
"No; my visit is something of a surprise, but it is time I
came on. Where are the boys?"
"You mean young Forrest and Tucker?" asked the manager, his
smile fading.
"Yes."
"The young cubs have gone to church. A likely pair they are!
What did you mean by turning loose a bunch like that on me?"
There was a slight tightening of Mr. Sparling's lips.
"What seems to be the trouble with them?"
"Insubordination. They are the worst boys I ever came across in
all my experience."
"Have you done as I requested, and helped them to learn
the business?"
"I have not!"
"May I inquire why not?"
"My telegrams should be sufficient answer to that question.
Both of them are hopeless. I want nothing to do with either
of them. They have thoroughly disorganized this car, and
each of them has assaulted me. Had I followed the promptings
of my own inclinations I should have smashed their heads
before this. But I considered their youth."
Mr. Sparling leaned back and laughed.
"I am glad you did not try it."
"Why?" demanded the manager suddenly.
"Because you would have got the thrashing of your life.
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