Free Unhappy Hooligan by Stuart Palmer

his face. There were howls of unsympathetic glee from the few clowns remaining in the Alley. “Walk duck-footed, like I do,” counseled Hap over his shoulder. They came to the side entrance, and Rook could see that the show was now on in full blast. Captain Larsen was marshaling his seven great tigers out of the working cage and into their traveling wagon, with much snarling on their part and much show of obvious bravery on the part of their trainer, who slapped their behinds contemptuously as they passed one by one into the chute. The end rings were filled with trained bears gravely riding on roller skates, a sea-lion act playing horns, and overhead the aerialists whirled back and forth in perfect time with the music of the band.
    Suddenly a black mongrel dog, wearing a silly hat like her master’s, appeared out of nowhere. “Meet Cordelia,” said Hap Hammett. “She won’t bite you, unless you crab her act or ruin her laughs.”
    “But what do I do in there?” Rook asked a little feebly.
    “Just follow us, about ten feet behind. I’ll cue you as we go—nobody can hear us over the din of the crowd. Sometimes during the World Series I even wear a little portable radio under my costume.” The band now broke into the clown promenade—the fast galop, “High Riding.”
    “Let’s get with it, clown!” cried Hap, and they burst out onto the Hippodrome at a stumbling run, pausing before the first tier of reserved seats. A uniformed attendant handed Hap a big paper hoop; Cordelia three times refused to leap through it, and then, after deftly tripping up her master by running between his legs, she plunged—and was rewarded with a bit of biscuit. Hap turned, and politely offered one to Howie Rook. “Grab for it like you’re starving,” he ordered in a low tone. Rook obediently grabbed—and then Hap indignantly snatched it back and gave it to the dog.
    They were rewarded with howls of juvenile laughter, and raced on to repeat the act before the next section. This time Cordelia refused the jump entirely, in spite of Hap’s frenzied gestures. He turned, and offered the hoop invitingly to Howie Rook, with a wicked leer. And somehow, to his own surprise, Rook found himself jumping through it, weighted shoes and all. He was rewarded with a bit of dog biscuit, while Cordelia growled at him and worried his trousers in mock jealousy.
    They repeated that simple slapstick act half a dozen more times around the vast oval at breakneck pace; Rook began to feel muscles complaining in his legs and ankles that had never complained before. Somehow he was able to keep up most of the time; once he was almost run down when he lagged in the way of six evil-looking camels who were making a swift entrance. The cause of that one lapse was that he had recognized a certain face in the front row of the last section of reserved seats—he couldn’t be exactly sure, having seen the girl only once and for a few minutes in Chief Parkman’s outer office, but he could have sworn that girl was angel-faced, pouting-lipped Yvonne McFarley!
    Belatedly he sprinted to make up the gap and get back into the act, but his mind was full of new wanderings. What in the world was Yvonne doing here, at this time?
    He caught up with Hap and Cordelia, managed to leap through the hoop once more, and then somehow they had made the full circle and out the exit. Rook leaned against a tent pole, too out of breath to speak. “You weren’t as bad as I expected,” said Hap. Both he and the dog seemed rather amused. “I didn’t really think you’d take the hoops; I thought you’d freeze and then Cordelia would show you how. But we’ll keep it in.”
    “Th-thanks,” muttered Howie Rook, his mouth dry from dog biscuits.
    “Our next walkaround you can—wait, look at this!” Hap pointed, and Rook looked up to where Mademoiselle Marie du Mond (as flamboyantly ballyhooed now by the loud-speaker system) was working her way hand over hand up a rope leading to the