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SHOWMAN
the house was crowded to see the ancient feud fought out. Half the time the Turk knew nothing about his opponent till he saw him in the ring, but this time I'd taken care to let him know it was a Greek he had to deal with— and he was steamed up for fair. He got into the ring first and sat there on his chair glowering like the giant Blunderbore announcing he smelt the blood of an Englishman.
Then the Greek appeared. He had to come down a long flight of stairs to reach the ring. His hair was all oiled and curled, he wore an elegant silk dressinggown and, as he tripped down the steps bowing and smiling and blowing kisses, all he needed was a balletskirt and an orchestra. But, when he reached the ring and saw the Turk, who had half risen from his chair and was sort of clutching for him with his huge, hairy hands, the Greek stopped dead and almost turned and ran. All the while they were persuading him into the ring and taking off his dressing-gown, his face grew grayer with blank terror. When he had to walk to the middle of the ring for instructions, he actually tottered. And, once the Turk laid hands on him, it was just too bad. It turned out afterwards that he was just a local amateur whom some Greek promoter had weaned away from a fruit-stand to make a little money with. He did get a couple of thousand, but I wouldn't let myself in for such a gibbering fright as that for twenty times the money.
When we took the Turk through the Middle West,
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