The end of his cigar, red in the May dusk, was cocked up close to his left eye with the arrogant tilt that signified the general temperament of "Plug" Ivory. For almost fifty years a circus man, he felt a bland and yet contemptuous superiority to those who had passed their lives in Smyrna Corner. However, when his father had died at the ripe age of ninety-three-died in the harness, even while gingerly and thriftily knuckling along a weight into the eighth notch of the bar of the scoop scales-Ivory had come back as sole heir to store, stock and stand, a seventy-two-year-old black sheep bringing a most amazing tail behind him-no less than a band chariot, a half dozen animal cages, a tent loaded on a great cart, and various impedimenta of "Buck's Leviathan Circus and Menagerie.
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