He wouldn't admit to any judge or jury that he'd been skeptical about going into Canada, of all places. Granted, Ringo never did much in the way of thinking about where they were going, he just enjoyed the trip while it was happening. Times where Ringo ran out of his trademark, take-life-as-it-comes enthusiasm were rare to the point of myth. Some of the carnies blamed the clown makeup for making his actual expressions inscrutable. Most of them just thought he was nuts.
However, French was not on his list of known languages, nor was he certain he would know it if her heard (or at least he wouldn't be if he hadn't once walked up on the Laurent brothers having a shouting match a few months back (They were French, weren't they?)).
Setting up shop was simple enough, since nobody but him knew what Ringo Toss and Riot Ball should look like. With charm as excessive as Ringo's, it was easy to say he was "done" and be believed. In truth, he could run the games with as many or few props as he wanted, it was all about what interested the rubes. He'd make it more complicated for the sophisticated, metropolitan folk; it needed to be less intimidating for the rural bumpkins.
Unfortunately, after an hour of unsuccessful arm waving and gesticulation, it became apparent that there would be not Ringo Tossing or Rioting Balls when the extent of Ringo's French was "omelette du fromage". In fact, it seemed most of the Midway was deserted, save for anyone who actually spoke French and didn't just say everything in a deep, nasally accent and pretend to twirl an imaginary mustache while saying "Ho ho ho".
Wasted effort wouldn't do at all, not in the least. Ringo shifted his battered bowler hat to the other side of his head, got his squirting flower and went to work. There were some things that just didn't need words to be effective, like joy buzzers. Ringo slipped the small device into his palm and offered a friendly handshake to the first person he saw.