Well, sir, I never went again:  the words hurt like the cut of a whip, though ’twan’t George that spoke them.  But I quit business, and hung around the town till I heard he was going to live, and I broke up my contract with South.  I never went on a trapeze again.  I felt as if the infernal thing was always dripping with his blood after that day.  Anyhow, all the heart went out of the business for me with George.  So I came back here and settled down to the milling, and by degrees I learned to think of George as a rich and fortunate man.

I’ve nearly done now—­only a word or two more.  About six years afterward there was a circus came to town, and I took the wife and children and went.  I always did when I had the chance.  It was the old Adam in me yet, likely.

Well, sir, among the attractions of the circus was the great and unrivalled Hercules, who could play with cannon-balls as other men would with dice.  I don’t know what made me restless and excited when I read about this man.  It seemed as though the old spirit was coming back to me again.  I could hardly keep still when the time drew near for him to appear.  I don’t know what I expected, but when he came out from behind the curtain I shouted out like a madman, “Balacchi!  George!  George!”

He stopped short, looked about, and catching sight of me tossed up his cap with his old boyish shout; then he remembered himself and went on with his performance.

He was lame—­yes, in one leg.  The other was gone altogether.  He walked on crutches.  Whether the strength had gone into his chest and arms, I don’t know; but there he stood tossing about the cannon-balls as I might marbles.  So full of hearty good-humor too, joking with his audience, and so delighted when they gave him a round of applause.

After the performance I hurried around the tent, and you may be sure there was rejoicing that made the manager and other fellows laugh.

George haled me off with him down the street.  He cleared the ground with that crutch and wooden leg like a steam-engine.  “Come! come along!” he cried; “I’ve something to show you, Loper.”

He took me to a quiet boarding-house, and there, in a cosey room, was Susy with a four-year-old girl.

“We were married as soon as I could hobble about,” he said, “and she goes with me and makes a home wherever I am.”

Susy nodded and blushed and laughed.  “Baby and I,” she said.  “Do you see Baby?  She has her father’s eyes, do you see?”

“She is her mother, Loper,” said George—­“just as innocent and pure and foolish—­just as sure of the Father in heaven taking care of her.  They’ve made a different man of me in some ways—­a different man,” bending his head reverently.

After a while I began, “You did not stay with—?” But Balacchi frowned.  “I knew where I belonged,” he said.

Well, he’s young yet.  He’s the best Hercules in the profession, and has laid up a snug sum.  Why doesn’t he invest it and retire?  I doubt if he’ll ever do that, sir.  He may do it, but I doubt it.  He can’t change his blood, and there’s that in Balacchi that makes me suspect he will die with the velvet and gilt on, and in the height of good-humor and fun with his audience.