"So you object to being called sonny, do you?"
"Well, I'd rather be called Toby, for, you see, that's my name."
"All right, my boy; we'll call you Toby. I suppose you thought it
was a mighty fine thing to run away an' jine a circus, didn't you?"
Toby started in affright, looked around cautiously, and then tried
to peer down through the small square aperture, guarded by iron
rods, that opened into the cage just back of the seat they were
sitting on. Then he turned slowly around to the driver, and asked,
in a voice sunk to a whisper: "How did you know that I was runnin'
away? Did he tell you?" and Toby motioned with his thumb as if he
were pointing out someone behind him.
It was the driver's turn now to look around in search of the "he"
referred to by Toby.
"Who do you mean?" asked the man, impatiently.
"Why, the old feller; the one in the cart there. I think he knew
I was runnin' away, though he didn't say anything about it; but he
looked just as if he did."
The driver looked at Toby in perfect amazement for a moment, and
then, as if suddenly understanding the boy, relapsed into one of
those convulsive efforts that caused the blood to rush up into his
face and gave him every appearance of having a fit.
"You must mean one of the monkeys," said the driver, after he had
recovered his breath, which had been almost shaken out of his body
by the silent laughter.
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