There was something in the
air, but the Circus Boy did not know it.
"What kind of clown act would you advise me to get up?" he asked.
"Oh, you don't have to get it up. We'll do that for you.
In fact, there is one act that most all clowns start with, and
it will do as well as anything else for you. You see, you have
to get used to being funny, or you'll forget yourself, and then
you're of no further use as a clown."
"Yes, I know; but what is the act?"
"What do you say, fellows--don't you think the human football
would fit him from the sawdust up?"
"Just the thing," answered the performers thus appealed to.
Mr. Miaco, the head clown, was bending over his trunk, his sides
shaking with laughter, but Teddy did not happen to observe him,
nor had he noticed that the head clown had had no part in
the conversation.
"The human football?" questioned Teddy dubiously.
"Yes."
"What's that?"
"Oh, you dress up in funny makeup so you look like a huge ball."
"But what do I do after I have become a football?"
"Oh, you roll around in the arena, falling all over yourself and
everybody who happens to get in your way; you bounce up and down
and make all sorts of funny--"
"Oh, I know," cried Teddy enthusiastically.
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