ill slowly with tears. "I can't," she said simply;
"I can't, Goosie." Again Charles-Norton had that sensation of a wreath
falling about his neck, a heavy wreath within the soft flowers of which
was hidden a good stout chain. "All right; go ahead," he said, with a
sigh.

Dolly, with the firmness of a surgeon inexorably sure of what is best
for his patient, curtailed the "flying apparatus" to the required length.
"Now, let's see you," said Bison Billiam.

And Charles-Norton repeated his performance, more heavily this time, in
smaller compass. But when he descended, again he was met by Bison
Billiam's disapproving head-shake. "We'll have to take off another foot,"
said Bison Billiam.

"But why?" remonstrated Charles-Norton (with the first cut there had
already come to him a certain lassitude, an indifference, almost, which
made him much more tractable). "Why do you want my wings short?" (also he
was conscious of a feeling of aspiration amidships, of aspiration for
something else than pine-nuts). "Don't you want me to fly well? What the
deuce is the matter?"

"It won't do; it won't do at all," said Bison Billiam, in a tone almost
of discouragement. "Can't you _see_ it won't do?" he went on impatiently.
"It's too smooth; there's no effort in it. Lord, you do it as though it
were _easy_! And there's no _danger_ in it, man! Lord, I sit here and
watch you without batting an eye-lid; feeling sure you can't fall. That's
not what I want. I want the audience to get excited, to palpitate! I
don't want them to sit there like lambs watching a cloud, or a bird
flying. Your act isn't worth two-bits a week. I want men to groan,
children to scream, women to faint! Lop 'em off!"

Again Charles-Norton submitted himself to Dolly's gentle fingers and cold
scissors, and repeated his act with shortened wings. This happened three
times. Three times the scissors zipped, down eddied to the ground, and
Charles-Norton tried again, more heavily, more soddenly, his being
invaded by the emptiness of the old days, the shorn days.

At the end of the third flight, Bison Billiam remained silent a long
time, evidently the prey of a heavy discouragement. Suddenly the light of
inspiration sprang to his brow; his voice rang clear in the glade. "Cut
six inches off the left wing," he cried, "and leave the right as it is.
Shear the left and leave the right as it is!"

Charles-Norton gazed at him open-mouthed. But by this time there was
little left in him