performers.

“Just sit right here,” he counseled. “I’ll run and get you a glass of water; you’ll be all right in a jiffy. The tiger’s safe enough; keepers have got him.”

By the time he returned, the world had righted itself again, and he was only a slave.

“I, I’ll be running along,” he stammered, “that is, if you’re all right?”

“But I’m not all right,” protested Gwen. “Besides, I need some one to talk to. Why should you go?”

“You know,” Johnny faltered, “I’m not a performer; at least, not yet.”

“Fiddle!” she puckered up her lips. “What diff does that make; you’re a brave boy. You were right near that awful tiger when I saw you, and you weren’t running away. I believe you were there all the time.”

“I was,” admitted Johnny. “I was watching you dance when he came up.”

“Oh!” She gave him a queer look. “And what did you think you could do?”

“If he had reached you, I could have put up a good scrap.”

She looked at him again. “I believe you could,” she smiled. “I saw you give that bear the knockout the other day. That was good, awful good! Say! You can box, can’t you?”

“A little.”

“Will you give me some lessons?”

Johnny’s heart leaped. Would he?

“Su—sure,” he stammered, “any—any time.”

“All right; to-morrow morning at nine. What say?”

“That suits me.”

“It’s a go,” she said, holding out her hand. Johnny gripped it warmly, and as he did so, he realized that there was nothing soft or flabby about that hand.

“You see,” she half apologized, “I have to keep in trim for my stunts, and nothing will do it quite like boxing.”

“Uh-huh!” Johnny scarcely heard her. Her hand had made him think of the diamond ring. Should he ask her about it now? It seemed what his old professor would call the 

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