“Do you mean it?” She seemed to doubt every instant that good fortune had descended permanently upon her. She was like a dreamer who anticipated a sombre awakening even while he clung to the bliss of his dream.

“Sure, I mean it. I’ll get a job and we’ll find an apartment and you can spend your spare time swimming and lying on the beach.” He knew a twinge of unexpected jealousy. “That is, if you’ll promise not to look at all the men who are going to look at you.” He was ashamed of that statement.

Charlotte, however, was not sufficiently civilized to be displeased. “Do you think I’d two-time the first gent that ever worried about what I did in my spare moments? Why, if you brought home a few bucks to most of the birds I know, they wouldn’t even ask how you earned it—they’d be so busy lookin’ for another girl an’ a shot of gin.”

“Well—let’s go.”

Hugo went to one of the largest side shows. After some questioning he found the manager. “I’m H. Smith,” he said, “and I want to apply for a job.”

“Doin’ what?”

“This is my wife.” The manager stared and nodded. Charlotte took his arm and rubbed it against herself, thinking, perhaps, that it was a wifely gesture. Hugo smiled inwardly and then looked at the sprawled form of the manager. There, to that seamy-faced and dour man who was almost unlike a human being, he was going to offer the first sale of his majestic strength. A side-show manager, sitting behind a dirty desk in a dirty building.

“A strong-man act,” Hugo said.

Charlotte tittered. She thought that the bravado of her new friend was over-stepping the limits of good sense. The manager sat up. “I’d like to have a good strong man, yes. The show needs one. But you’re not the bird. You haven’t got the beef. Go over and watch that damned German work.”

Hugo bent over and fastened one hand on the back of the chair on which the manager sat. Without evidence of effort he lifted the chair and its occupant high over his head.

“For Christ’s sake, let me down,” the manager said.

Hugo swung him through the air in a wide arc. “I say, mister, that I’m three times stronger than that German. And I want your job. If I don’t look strong enough, I’ll wear some padded tights. And I’ll give you a show that’ll be worth the admission. But I want a slice of the entrance price—and maybe a separate tent, see? My name is Hogarth”—he winked at Charlotte—“and you’ll never be sorry you took me on.”

The manager, panting and astonished, was returned to the floor. His anger struggled with his pleasure at Hugo’s showmanship. “Well, what else can you do? Weight-lifting is pretty stale.”