"
"You mean you discharge me?"
"You have guessed it."
The manager smiled a superior sort of smile.
"You forget I have a contract with you. You can't discharge me
until the end of the season."
"And you forget that I have already done so. Here! You see, I
come prepared for your objections. Here is a check for your
salary to the end of the season. We are quits. I do not have to
do even that, but no one can say that James Sparling doesn't do
business on the square."
The manager turned a shade paler.
"I--I'm sorry. When--when do you wish me to leave?"
"Now--this minute! I want you to get off this car, and if you
don't get off bag and baggage inside of five minutes, I shall
make it my personal business to throw you off," announced the
showman with rising color. He had contained himself as long as
he could. The indignities to which his Circus Boys had been
subjected, ever since they joined the car, had stirred the
showman profoundly.
"It is now a quarter to twelve. At noon sharp, your baggage and
yourself will be outside of this car. I am in charge here now."
The showman leaned back and watched his former car manager
hurriedly pack his belongings into a suitcase.
"I'll get even with you for this," snarled Snowden as he walked
from the car, slamming the door after him.
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