I was born that way, I suppose.
The first man to approach the wicket was the Director of the Circus. I
knew him at once. There was no question as to _his_ identity. He wore a
fifty-candle-power stone in his shirt-front, a silk hat that shone like
a new hansom cab, and a Prince Albert coat that came below his knees. He
had taken off his ring boots, of course, and was without his whip, but
otherwise he was completely equipped to raise his hat and say: "Ladies
and Gentlemen, the world-renowned," etc., etc., "will now perform the
blood-curdling act of," etc.
He was attended by a servant, was smooth-shaven, had an Oriental
complexion as yellow as the back of an old law-book, black, jet-black
eyes, and jet-black hair.
I listened for some outbreak, some explosion about his bed having been
sold from under him, some protest about the rights of a citizen. None
came. The gateman merely touched his hat, slid back the gate, and the
Director of the Greatest Show on Earth, smiling haughtily, passed in,
crossed the platform and stepped into a _wagon-lit_ standing on the next
track to me labelled "Paris 312," and left me behind.
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