THE show was working its way to New York, to embark for England. All day the wardrobe woman and her assistants worked over new costumes, to make the British drop their h's plumb onto the ground. And in the mess tent there was much joking about sea-sickness.
"Say, you better fill up while you can keep it!"
"Who, me? I'm going to swallow a handful of buck shot after every meal. That oughta hold it down."
Outside of these preparations, there was not much change. They drew into a town, unloaded, paraded, played a day or two and moved on. But there was more interest now in where they were.
"Where are we now anyhow? Ithaca?"
"Syracuse, ain't it? Hey, boy, what town's this?"
Tom himself took no particular notice. One town was the same as another to him. He did his work efficiently but grimly, loaded and unloaded his big teams, was largely his own veterinarian, worked hard all day and at night dropped into a berth that was too short for him, to sleep because he did not care to think.
Now and then he watched the performance, but not often. Arizona saw him one day, and looked after him when he turned on his heel and limped away. His shoulders were sagging, his head down. But there was nothing he could do. Tom fiercely repulsed any attempt at sympathy.
"They tell me you used to be some rider," a new cowboy said to him once, with a hint of patronage.
"Yes," Tom drawled. "They used to have some good riders in this show. Now they've got a lot of kindergarten kids that lose control of themselves the minute some poor old skate gives a crow-hop or two."
