“Teddy, you and I are a pair of lucky boys. Do you know it?” asked Phil.
Each, with his bag of belongings, was on his way to the circus lot, the boys having bid good-bye to their friends in the village.
The people with whom Teddy lived had given a reluctant consent to his going with the circus, after he had explained that Phil Forrest had gotten him the place and that Phil himself was going to join the show. The lad told them he was going to make a lot of money and that someday he would pay them for all they had done for him. And he kept his word faithfully.
“Maybe. I reckon Barnum & Bailey will be wanting us first thing we know,” answered Teddy.
“We shall be lucky if we hold on to the job we have already. Did Mr. Sparling say what he would pay you?”
“No, he didn’t think of that—at least I didn’t. Did he tell you how much you were going to get?”
Phil nodded.
“How much?”
“I don’t think I had better say,” answered the lad doubtfully. “If you ask him and he tells you, of course that will be all right. I shall be glad to do so then. It isn’t that I don’t want you to know, you understand, but it might be better business, just now, to say nothing about it,” added Phil, with a wisdom far beyond his years.
“Dark secret, eh?” jeered Teddy Tucker.
“No; there’s no secret about it. It is just plain business, that’s all.”
“Business! Huh! Who ever heard of a circus being business?”
“You’ll find business enough when you get in, Teddy Tucker.”
“Don’t believe it. It’s just good fun and that’s all.”
They had reached the circus lot by this time and were now making their way to Mr. Sparling’s tent.
“We have come to report, sir,” announced Phil, entering the tent with Teddy close behind him. “We are ready for work.”
There was a proud ring in Phil Forrest’s voice as he made the announcement.
“Very well, boys. Hand your baggage over to the man at the baggage wagon. If there is anything in either of your grips that you will want during the night you had better get it out, for you will be unable to get into the wagon after the show is on the road. That’s one of the early wagons to move, too.”
“I guess there is nothing except our tooth brushes and combs that we shall need. We have those in our pockets.”
“Better take a couple of towels along as well.”
“Yes, sir; thank you.”
“The cook tent is open. Go over and have your suppers now. Wait a moment, I’ll go with you. They might not let you in. You see, they don’t know you there yet.”
Mr. Sparling, after closing and locking his trunk, escorted the lads to the cook tent, where he introduced both to the manager of that department.
“Give them seats at the performers’ table for tonight,” he directed. “They will be with the show from now on. Mr. Forrest here will remain at that table, but the other, the Tucker boy, I shall probably turn over to you for a coffee boy.”
The manager nodded good naturedly, taking quick mental measure of the two lads.
The boys were directed to their seats, which they took, almost as if in a dream. It was a new and unfamiliar experience to them. The odor of the food, the sweet scents from the green grass underneath their feet, all so familiar to the showman, gave Phil and Teddy appetites that even a canvasman might have envied.
The performers glanced at them curiously, some of the former nodding to Phil, having recognized in him the boy who had ridden the elephant into the arena in the grand entry.
“Not so much after all, are they?” grunted Teddy.
“They are all human beings like ourselves, I guess,” replied Phil.
Stripped of their gaudy costumes and paint, the performers looked just like other normal beings. But instead of talking about the show and their work, they were discussing the news of the day, and it seemed to the two lads to be more like a large family at supper than a crowd of circus performers.
Rodney Palmer nodded good naturedly to them from further up the long table, but they had no more than time to nod back when a waiter approached to take their orders. Teddy ordered pretty much everything on the bill, while Phil was more modest in his demands.
“Don’t eat everything they have,” he warned laughingly.
“Plenty more where this came from. That’s one good thing about a show.”
“What’s that?”
“If the food gives out they can eat the animals.”
“Better look out that the animals don’t make a meal of you.”
“Joining out?” asked the man sitting next to Phil.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ring act?”
“I don’t know yet what I am to do. Mr. Sparling is giving me a chance to find out what I am good for, if anything,” smiled Phil.
“Boss is all right,” nodded the circus man. “That was a good stunt you did this afternoon. Why don’t you work that up?”
“I—I’ll think about it.” Phil did not know exactly what was meant by the expression, but it set him to thinking, and out of the suggestion he was destined to “work up” something that was really worthwhile, and that was to give him his first real start in the circus world.
“What’s that funny-looking fellow over there doing?” interrupted Teddy.
“That man down near the end of the table?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Billy Thorpe, the Armless Wonder,” the performer informed him.
“And he hasn’t any hands?” wondered the boy.
“Naturally not, not having any arms. He uses his feet for hands.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“Eating with his feet. He can use them almost as handily as you can your hands. You should see Billy sew, and write and do other things. Why, they say he writes the best foot of anybody in the show.”
“Doesn’t he ever get cold feet?” questioned Teddy humorously.
“Circus people are not afflicted with that ailment. Doesn’t go well with their business.”
“May I ask what you do?” inquired Phil.
“I am the catcher in the principal trapeze act. You may have seen me today. I think you were in the big top then.”
“Oh, yes, I saw you this afternoon.”
“How many people are with the show?” asked Teddy.
“At a rough guess, I should say a hundred and fifty including canvasmen and other labor help. It’s a pretty big organization for a road show, the biggest in the country; but it’s small, so small it would be lost if one of the big railroad shows was around.”
“Is that another armless or footless wonder next to Billy Thorpe?” asked Teddy.
“It’s a freak, yes, but with hands and feet. That’s the living skeleton, but if he keeps on eating the way he’s been doing lately the boss will have to change the bills and bill him as the fattest man on earth.”
“Huh!” grunted Teddy. “He could crawl through a rat hole in a barn door now. He’s thin enough to cut cheese with.”
Phil gave his companion a vigorous nudge under the table.
“You’ll get into trouble if you are so free in expressing your opinions,” he whispered. “Don’t forget the advice Mr. Sparling gave you.”
“Apple or custard pie?” broke in the voice of the waiter.
“Custard,” answered Phil.
“Both for mine,” added Teddy.
He got what he had ordered and without the least question, for the Sparling show believed that the best way to make its people contented was to feed them.
Mr. Sparling and his assistants, Phil observed, occupied a table by themselves. After he had finished the owner motioned to him to join them, and there Mrs. Sparling made a place for him by her side and thanked him briefly but warmly for his brave act.
“I shall have to keep an eye on you two boys,” she smiled. “Any time I can help you with advice or otherwise you come right to me. Don’t you be backward about doing so, will you?”
Phil assured her that he would not.
The two lads after some further conversation strolled from the cook tent.
“I think I’ll go in and see how the animals are getting along,” decided Phil, beginning to realize that he was free to go where he would and without fear of being ordered off.
Already people were gathering in front of the entrance for the night performance. The doors were advertised to open at seven o’clock, so that the spectators might have plenty of time in which to view the collection of “rare and wonderful beasts, gathered from the remote places of the earth,” as the announcer proclaimed from the vantage point of a dry goods box.
Phil bought a bag of peanuts and took them in to his friend Emperor, the beast uttering a shrill cry of joy when he saw Phil approaching.
“I’ll try to teach him my whistle,” said the boy, puckering his lips and giving the signal that the boys of his school used in summoning each other.
“Think he’ll remember that, Mr. Kennedy?” he asked of the trainer.
“Never forget it, will you, Emperor?”
The elephant coughed.
“Never forgets anything. Knows more than any man in the show now, because he has lived longer.”
“How old is he?”
“Close to a hundred.”
“You don’t say?” marveled Teddy. “Hope I’ll be able to squeal as loud as that when I’m a hundred. Has he got a hole through his trunk?”
“Not that anybody knows of.”
“Come on; I want to see the fellow tame the tiger. I missed that today, because he didn’t do it at the afternoon show.”
They found Mr. Sparling standing in front of the cage. He, too, was there to watch the performance.
“This looks to me like ready money,” he observed to Phil, nodding his head toward the people who were crowding into the tent.
“Mr. Forrest, will you ride Emperor in again tonight? I think that’s one of the reasons they have come here,” said the showman, shrewdly grasping the least thing that would tend to popularize his show.
“Certainly, sir. I shall enjoy it very much.”
They now turned their attention to the cage where the trainer had begun with the savage tiger.
“Bengal is in an ugly temper about something tonight,” announced Mr. Sparling in a low tone. “Better be careful, Bob,” he cautioned, after having stepped up close to the cage.
“I’ll take care of him,” answered the trainer, without taking his eyes from the beast for the fraction of a second.
Phil had heard the dialogue and now drew closer to the cage, stepping under the rope and joining Mr. Sparling.
Teddy, of course, not to be left behind, crawled under the rope also.
“Sit down in front,” shouted someone. “We can’t see the animals play.”
In a moment the spectators saw a play that was not down on the bills.
Bob was swinging the whip over Bengal’s nose, the cruel lash cutting the tender snout with every blow. But he was not doing it from sheer cruelty, as many of the spectators who raised their voices in loud protest imagined.
Not understanding wild animals as the trainer did, they did not realize that this plucky fellow was fighting for his life, even though he used but a slender rawhide in his effort to do so.
Bengal was crowding him. The least mistake on the trainer’s part now and the savage tiger would put a quick and terrible end to him.
“Stand back, everybody! Bring the prods!” bellowed Mr. Sparling.
Phil understood that something was wrong, though he never would have guessed it from the calm expression on the trainer’s face.
Not a word did the performer speak, but his hand rained blows on the nose, while snarl after snarl was spit from between Bengal’s gleaming teeth.
The trainer was edging slowly toward the door. He knew that nothing could be done with the beast in its present state of terrible temper.
His only hope was that at a favorable moment, when the attendants came with their long, iron bars, he might be able to spring from the door at his back, which he was trying to reach.
Phil’s mind was working like an automatic machine. He saw now what the trainer was attempting to do, and was seeking for some means of helping the man. But what could a slender boy hope to do against the power of a great, savage brute like Bengal?
Phil concluded there was nothing.
A pistol flashed almost in the face of the two lads. Mr. Sparling had started away on a run to fetch the attendants who either had not heard or failed to heed his call.
“What did he do that f-f-for?” stammered Teddy.
“To drive the tiger back. It was a blank cartridge that he fired. I think the tiger is going to attack him. Yes, there he goes! Oh, that’s terrible!”
The trainer had been forced against the bars at the back of the cage by the animal, whose length was more than the width of the cage itself.
In an unsuspected moment the beast had sprung upon the unfortunate man, and with one sweep of his powerful paw had laid the man low.
With a growl of savage joy, the brute settled back against the bars of the cage near which the lads were standing.
Women shrieked and men grew pale as they stood helpless to do aught to avert the impending tragedy.
Teddy slipped out from under the rope, his face ashen gray. But Phil stood his ground. He felt that he must do something.
Then his opportunity came. The beast’s great silken tail popped out through the bars against which he was backing.
Phil Forrest, without an instant’s thought of the danger into which he was placing himself, sprang forward.
His hands closed over the tail, which he twisted about his right arm in a flash, at the same time throwing up his feet and bracing them against a wheel of the wagon.
No sooner had he done so than Bengal, uttering a frightful roar, whirled. The force of the jerk as the brute turned hurled Phil Forrest against the bars of the cage with a crash, and Bengal’s sharp-clawed feet made a vicious sweep for the body of the lad pressed so tightly against the bars.
“Open the door and let the man out!” shouted Phil, with great presence of mind. But no one seemed to have the power to move.
One sweep of the powerful claw and one side of the lad’s clothes was literally stripped from him, though he had managed to shrink back just far enough to save himself from the needle like claws of the tiger.
At this moment men came rushing from other parts of the tent. Some bore iron rods, while two or three carried tent poles and sticks—anything that the circus men could lay their hands upon.
Mr. Sparling was in the lead of the procession that dashed through the crowd, hurling the people right and left as they ran.
With every spring of the tiger Phil was being thrown against the bars with terrific force, but still he clung to the tail that was wrapped about his arm, hanging on with desperate courage.
Though the lad was getting severe punishment, he was accomplishing just what he had hoped for—to keep Bengal busy until help arrived to liberate the unconscious trainer, who lay huddled against the bars on the opposite side of the cage.
“Poke one of the tent poles in to him and let him bite it!” roared Mr. Sparling. “Half a dozen of you get around behind the cage and when we have his attention one of you pull Bob out. Keep your poles in the opening when you open the door, so Bengal doesn’t jump out. Everybody stand back!”
The commands of the showman came out like so many explosions of a pistol. But it had its effect. His men sprang to their work like machines.
In the meantime Mr. Sparling himself had grabbed the tail of the beast, taking a hold higher up than Phil’s.
“Pull the boy off. He’s hanging on like a bull dog. If you had half his sense you’d have put a stop to this mix-up minutes ago.”
Teddy by this time had gotten in under the ropes again, and, grasping his companion about the waist, he held on until he had untwisted the tiger’s tail from his companion’s arm and released Phil, staggering back with his burden against the rope.
Phil’s limp body, the moment Teddy let go of him, collapsed in a heap.
The circus men were too busy at the moment to notice him. One of the men had thrust a short tent pole between the bars. Bengal was upon it like an avalanche.
Biting, clawing, uttering fierce growls, he tore the hard wood into shreds, the man at the other end poking at the beast with all his might.
Cautiously the rear door of the cage was opened. Two men grasped Bob by the shoulders and hauled him out with a quick pull.
The crowd shouted in approval.
“All out! Let go!” shouted Mr. Sparling.
It took the strength of two men to pull the tent pole from Bengal’s grip. The instant he lost the pole the beast whirled and pounced upon the spot where he had left his victim.
Finding that he had lost his prey, the savage beast uttered roar upon roar, that made every spectator in the tent tremble and draw back, fearing the animal would break through the bars and attack them.
“Where’s that boy?”
“Here he is, and I guess he’s hurt,” answered Teddy.
“Give him to me. I’ll get him outside where we can get some decent air into him. Is he much hurt?”
“I—I don’t know.”
The showman grabbed Phil, and as a helper lifted the bottom of the tent’s side wall, Mr. Sparling ran to his own small tent with the unconscious Phil.
“Fetch a pail of water.”
Teddy ran for the cook tent to get the water. He was amazed to find no cook tent there. Instead, there remained only the open plot of grass, trampled down, with a litter of papers and refuse scattered about.
By the time he had dashed back to the tent to inquire where he could find a pail, one of the showmen had brought some water and Mr. Sparling was bathing Phil’s face with it.
He had made a hasty examination of the unconscious boy’s wounds, which he did not believe were serious.
Phil soon came to, and by that time the show’s doctor had arrived, having been in attendance on the wounded animal trainer.
“No; he’ll be sore for a few days, but there’s nothing dangerous about those scratches, I should say. I’ll dress the wounds and he can go on about his business,” was the surgeon’s verdict.
“I’ve got to ride Emperor in tonight,” objected Phil.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll get into my wagon and go to bed. That’s what you will do, and right quick, at that.”
“But,” urged the lad, “the people will all think I am seriously hurt if they see no more of me. Don’t you think it would be a good plan for me to show myself? They are liable to be uneasy all through the performance. If I show myself they will settle down and forget all about it in a few minutes.”
Mr. Sparling turned to his assistant with a significant nod.
“I told you that boy was a natural born showman. You can’t stop that kind with a club. Can you stand up alone?”
“Yes.”
Phil scrambled to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the table.
“I’ll be all right after I walk about a bit. How long before the elephants go in?”
“You’ve got fifteen minutes yet.”
“Then I may go on?”
“Yes, yes, go on. You’ll never be satisfied if you don’t. But I ought to take you over my knee and give you a sound walloping.”
“Thank you. How is Mr.—Mr.—the trainer?”
“He isn’t badly hurt, thanks to your presence of mind, young man,” answered the surgeon.
“That makes two people you’ve saved today, Forrest,” emphasized Mr. Sparling. “We will call that a day’s work. You have earned your meal ticket. Better run back to the dressing tent and ask them to fix up some clothes for you. Ask for Mrs. Waite, the wardrobe woman. Teddy Tucker, you run in and tell Mr. Kennedy, who has charge of the elephants, that Phil will ride tonight, and to wait until he gets in.”
Both boys hurried away on their respective missions. All that Mrs. Waite had that would come anywhere near fitting Phil was a yellow robe that looked like a night gown. Phil grinned as he tucked it under his arm and hurried back to the menagerie tent. As he passed through the “big top” he saw that it was filling up rapidly.
“I guess we are going to have a good house tonight,” muttered the lad with a pleased smile. It did not occur to him that he himself was responsible for a large part of the attendance—that the part he had played in the exciting incidents of the day had done more to advertise the Great Sparling Combined Shows than any other one factor.
“I am all ready, Mr. Kennedy,” announced Phil, running to the elephant quarters. The horns were blowing the signal for the grand entry, so the lad grasped the head harness, as Emperor stooped, and was quickly hoisted to the position in which he would enter the ring.
When the people saw that it was indeed Phil they set up a great shout. The lad was pale but resolute. As he went through the performance, his wounds smarted frightfully. At times the pain made him dizzy.
But Phil smiled bravely, waving his hands to the cheering people.
After the finish of the act Mr. Kennedy headed the elephants into the concourse, the open space between the rings and the seats, making a complete circuit of the tent, so that all might see Phil Forrest.
“This is a kind of farewell appearance, you know,” grinned Kennedy. And so the audience took it.
The lad’s former companions shouted all manner of things to him.
“Good-bye, Phil!”
“Don’t stick your head in the lion’s mouth.”
“Be careful when you twist the tiger’s tail. Better put some salt on it before you do.”
“We’ll look out for Uncle Abner.”
Phil was grinning broadly as he rode back into the menagerie tent. Everybody in town now knew that he had joined the circus, which brought forth a variety of comments. Some said it would be the end of the boy, but Phil Forrest knew that a boy could behave himself with a circus just as well as in any other occupation, and so far as his observations went, the circus people were much better than some folks he knew at home.
No sooner had they gotten into the menagerie tent than a sudden bustle and excitement were apparent. Confused shouts were heard on all sides. Teams, fully harnessed, were being led into the tent, quarter-poles were coming down without regard to where they struck, everybody appearing to have gone suddenly crazy.
“They’re striking the tent,” nodded Mr. Kennedy, noting the boy’s wonderment. “You had better look out for yourself. Don’t stand in the way or you may get hurt,” he warned.
“Get the bulls out!” called a man, hurrying by.
“They’re getting,” answered Kennedy.
“What do they mean by that?”
“In circus parlance, the ‘bulls’ are the elephants. Where you going to ride tonight?”
“I don’t know. Hello, there’s my friend Teddy. I guess I had better attach myself to him or he may get lost.”
As a matter of fact, Phil was not sure where he was himself, activities were following each other with such surprising rapidity.
But the lads stuck to their ground until it was no longer safe to do so. Phil was determined to see all there was to be seen, and what he saw he remembered. He had no need to be told after that, providing he understood the meaning of a certain thing at first.
Observing that one man was holding to the peak rope, and that it was rapidly getting the best of him, both lads sprang to his assistance.
“That’s right, boys. That’s the way to do it. Always be ready to take advantage of every opening. You’ll learn faster that way, and you’ll both be full-fledged showmen before you know it.”
“O Mr. Sparling,” exclaimed Phil, after others had relieved them on the rope.
“Yes? What is it?”
“I have been wanting to see you, to ask what you wish us to do tonight—where we are to travel?”
“You may sleep in my wagon. I’ll take a horse for tonight.”
“I could not think of doing such a thing. No, Mr. Sparling, if I am to be a circus man, I want to do just as the rest of them do. Where do the other performers sleep?”
“Wherever they can find places. Some few of the higher paid ones have berths in wagons. Others sleep in the band wagon. The rest, I guess, don’t sleep at all, except after we get into a town. The menagerie outfit will be leaving town very soon now. You may go through with them if you wish.”
“If you do not object, I think I should prefer to remain until the rest of the show goes out.”
“Suit yourself.”
Mr. Sparling understood how the lads felt, and perhaps it would be better to let them break in at once, he reasoned. They would become seasoned much sooner.
The tent was taken down and packed away in the wagons in an almost incredibly short time.
“Come on; let’s go into the circus tent and see what’s going on there,” suggested Teddy.
Phil agreed, and the lads strolled in. They found the performance nearly over. When it was finished quite a large number remained to see the “grand concert” that followed.
While this was going on there was a crash and a clatter as the men ripped up and loaded the seats, piling them into waiting wagons that had been driven into the tent from the rear so as not to be in the way of the people going out.
“It’s more fun to watch the men work than it is to see the concert. That concert’s a bum show,” averred Teddy, thrusting his hands in his pockets and turning his back on the “grand concert.”
“I agree with you,” laughed Phil. “There’s nothing but the freaks there, and we’ll see them, after this, every time we go for our meals.”
“Have you been in the dressing tent yet?” asked Teddy.
“No, I haven’t had time. We’ll have to look in there tomorrow, though I don’t think they care about having people visit them unless they belong there. Just now we don’t. Do you start work in the cook tent tomorrow?”
“Yes. I am to be the champion coffee drawer. I expect they will have my picture on the billboards after a little. Wouldn’t I look funny with a pitcher of hot, steaming coffee in my hand leaping over a table in the cook tent?” and Teddy laughed heartily at the thought. “I’ll bet I’d make a hit.”
“You mean you would get hit.”
“Well, maybe.”
The boys hung about until the big top had disappeared from the lot. The tent poles and boxes of properties were being loaded on the wagons, while out on the field, the ring horses, performing ponies and the like stood sleeping, waiting for the moment when they should be aroused for the start.
“Come on, Teddy; let’s you and I go make up our beds.”
“Where are they?”
“We’ll have to ask the porter,” laughed Phil, who had traveled a little with his parents years before.
“It’s a shame that that old tiger has to have a cage all to himself. We could make up a fine bed if we had half of his cage and some blankets,” complained Teddy.
“Thank you. I should prefer to walk. I have had all the argument I want with that beast. Let’s go try the band wagon.”
“All right; that would be fine to sleep way up there.”
Laughing and chattering, the lads hunted about on the lot until they found the great glittering band wagon. Being now covered with canvas to protect it from the weather, they had difficulty in making it out, but finally they discovered it, off near the road that ran by the grounds. Four horses were hitched to it, while the driver lay asleep on the high seat.
“Where will we get in?”
“I don’t know, Teddy; we will climb up and find out.”
Getting on the rear wheel they pulled themselves up, and finding the canvas covering loose, threw it open. Teddy plumped in feet first.
Immediately there followed such a howling, such a snarling and torrent of invective that, startled as he was, Phil lost his balance on the wheel and fell off.
No sooner had he struck the ground than a dark figure came shooting from above, landing on him and nearly knocking all the breath out of his body.
Phil threw off the burden, which upon investigation proved to be Teddy Tucker.
“Wha—what happened?” stammered Phil. “Sounds as if we had gotten into a wild animal cage.”
“I—I walked on somebody’s face and he threw me out,” answered Teddy ruefully. Phil leaned against the wagon wheel and laughed until his throat ached.
“Get out of here! What do you mean?” bellowed an angry voice over their heads. “Think my face is a tight rope to be walked on by every Rube that comes along?”
“Come—come on away, Teddy. We made a mistake. We got into the wrong berth.”
“Here’s another wagon, Phil. They’re just hitching the horses. Let’s try this.”
“All right, it’s a canvas wagon. Go ahead, we’ll try it.”
“I’ve tried one wagon. It’s your turn now,” growled Teddy.
“I guess you’re right. If I get thrown out you catch me the same as I did you,” laughed Phil.
“Yes, you caught me, didn’t you?”
Phil climbed up, but with more caution than Teddy had exercised in the case of the band wagon.
“Anybody living in this bedroom tonight?” questioned Phil of the driver.
“Guess you are. First come first served. Pile in. You’re the kid that rode the bull, ain’t you?”
“And twisted the tiger’s tail,” added Teddy.
“All right. Probably some others will be along later, but I’ll see to it that they don’t throw you out.”
“Thank you. Come on up, Teddy; it’s all right.”
Teddy Tucker hastily scrambled up into the wagon which proved to be a canvas wagon—an open wagon, over which a canvas cover was stretched in case of storm only.
“Where’s the bed clothes?” demanded Teddy.
“I guess the skies will have to be our quilts tonight,” answered Phil.
The boys succeeded in crawling down between the folds of the canvas, however, and, snuggling close together, settled down for their first night on the road with a circus. Soon the wagons began to move in response to a chorus of hoarse shouts. The motion of the canvas wagon very soon lulled the lads to sleep, as the big wagon show slowly started away and disappeared in the soft summer night.
“Hi! Stop the train! Stop the train!” howled Teddy, as he landed flat on his back on the hard ground.
“Here, here! What are you fellows doing?” shouted Phil, scrambling to his feet.
“I dreamed I was in a train of cars and they ran off the track,” said Teddy, struggling to his feet and rubbing his shins gingerly. “Did you do that?”
“You bet. Think I can wait for you kids to take your beauty sleep? Don’t you suppose this show’s got something else to do besides furnish sleeping accommodations for lazy kids? Take hold here, and help us get this canvas out if you want any breakfast.”
“Take it out yourself,” growled Teddy, dodging the flat of the canvasman’s hand.
The lads had been hurled from their sleeping place by a rough tentman in a hurry to get at his work. The chill of the early dawn was in the air. The boys stood, with shoulders hunched forward, shivering, their teeth chattering, not knowing where they were and caring still less. They knew only that they were most uncomfortable. The glamor was gone. They were face to face with the hardships of the calling they had chosen, though they did not know that it was only a beginning of those hardships.
“B-r-r-r!” shivered Teddy.
“T-h-h-h-at’s what I say,” chattered Phil.
“Say, are you kids going to get busy, or do you want me to help you to?”
Phil did not object to work, but he did not like the way the canvasman spoke to them.
“I guess you’ll have to do your own work. Come on, Teddy; let’s take a run and warm ourselves up.”
Hand in hand the lads started off across the field. The field was so dark that they could scarcely distinguish objects about them. Here and there they dodged wagons and teams that stood like silent sentinels in the uncertain light.
“Turn a little, Teddy. We’ll be lost before we know it, if we don’t watch out—”
“Ouch! We’re lost already!”
The ground seemed suddenly to give way beneath them. Both lads were precipitated into a stream of water that stretched across one end of the circus lot.
Shouting and struggling about they finally floundered to the bank, drenched from head to foot. If they had been shivering before, they were suffering from violent attacks of ague now.
“Whew! I’m freezing to death!” cried Phil.
“I feel like the North Pole on Christmas morning,” added Teddy. “I wish I was home, so I could thaw out behind the kitchen stove.”
“Brace up, Teddy. This is only the beginning of the fun. We shall have worse experiences than this, late in the fall, when the weather gets cool; that is, if they do not get enough of us in the meantime and send us away.”
“I—I wish they would send us home now.”
“Come now; we’ve got to run again. We shall surely take our death of cold, if we stand here much longer.”
“Run? No, thank you. I’ve had one run.”
“And you don’t want another? Is that it?”
“Not I.”
“Don’t know as I blame you. Well, if you don’t want to run, just stand in one place and jump up and down. Whip your hands, and you’ll see how soon it will start your blood to circulating,” advised Phil, who immediately proceeded to put his own theory into execution. “That feel better?”
“Yes, some,” replied Teddy, rather doubtfully. “But I could be warmer. I wonder what time the cook tent will be up.”
“That’s an idea. Suppose we go over and find out?”
“Yes, but where is it?”
“I don’t know. But we won’t find it if we stand here.”
They started off again, this time exercising more caution as to where their feet touched. They had not gone far before they came upon some men who were driving small stakes in the ground, marking out the spot where one of the tents was to be pitched.
“Can you tell us where the cook tent is going up?” asked Phil politely.
“North side of the field,” grunted the man, not very good-naturedly.
“Which way is north?”
“Get a compass, get a compass,” was the discourteous answer.
“He’s a grouch. Come along,” urged Teddy Tucker.
A few moments later, attracted by a light that looked like a fire, the lads hurried toward it.
“Where will we find the cook tent?” questioned Phil again.
“Right here,” was the surprising answer.
“What time will it be ready?”
“About seven o’clock. What’s the matter, hungry?”
“More cold than hungry,” replied Phil, his teeth chattering.
“Got to get used to that. Come here. I’ve got something that will doctor you up in no time,” announced the man in a cheerful voice, so different from the answers the lads had received to their questions that morning, that they were suddenly imbued with new courage.
“What is it?” asked Phil.
“Coffee, my lad. We always make coffee the first thing when we get in, these chilly mornings. The men work much better after getting something warm inside them. Got a cup?”
They had not.
“Wait, I’ll get you one,” said the accommodating showman.
Never had anything tasted so good as did the coffee that morning. It was excellent coffee, too, and the boys drank two cups apiece.
“We mustn’t drink any more,” warned Phil.
“Why not?” wondered Teddy.
“Because we shall be so nervous that we shall not be able to work today. And, by the way, were I in your place, I should get busy here and help in the cook tent until you are told to do something else. I think it will make a good impression on Mr. Sparling.”
Teddy consented rather grudgingly.
“I’ll turn in and do something at the same time. What can we do to help you, sir? That coffee was very good.”
“Might get busy and unpack some dishes from those barrels. Be careful that you don’t break any of them.”
“All right. Where shall we put them?”
“Pile them on the ground, all the dishes of the same size together. Be sure to set a lantern by them so nobody falls over them in the dark.”
The boys, glad of some task to perform, began their work with a will. With something to do it was surprising how quickly they forgot their misfortunes. In a short time they were laughing and joking with the good-natured cooktent man and making the dishes fairly fly out of the barrels.
“Guess I’ll have to keep you two boys with my outfit,” grinned the showman.
“I think Mr. Sparling said my friend, Teddy here, was to work in the cook tent for the present.”
“All right, Mr. Teddy. There’s one thing about working in the cook tent that ought to please you.”
“What’s that?”
“You can piece between meals all you want to. If you are like most boys, you ought to have a good healthy appetite all the time, except when you are sleeping.”
“That’s right. I could eat an elephant steak now—right this minute. How long before breakfast?”
“Seven o’clock, I told you.”
“What time does Mr. Sparling get up?” inquired Phil.
“Up? Ask me what time he goes to bed. I can answer one question as well as the other. Nobody knows. He’s always around when you least expect him. There he is now.”
The owner was striding toward the cook tent for his morning cup of coffee.
“Good morning, sir,” greeted the boys, pausing in their work long enough to touch their hats, after which they continued unpacking the dishes.
“Morning, boys. I see you are up early and getting right at it. That’s right. No showman was ever made out of a sleepy-head. Where did you sleep last night?”
“In a wagon on a pile of canvas,” answered Phil.
“And they threw us out of bed this morning,” Teddy informed him, with a grimace.
Mr. Sparling laughed heartily.
“And we fell in a creek,” added Teddy.
“Well, well, you certainly are having your share of experiences.”
“Will you allow me to make a suggestion, Mr. Sparling?” asked Phil.
“Of course. You need not ask that question. What is it?”
“I think I ought to have some sort of a costume if I am to continue to ride Emperor in the grand entry.”
“H-m-m-m. What kind do you think you want?”
“Could I wear tights?”
Mr. Sparling was about to laugh, but one glance into the earnest eyes of Phil Forrest told him that the boy’s interest was wholly in wishing to improve the act—not for the sake of showing himself, alone.
“Yes, I think perhaps it might not be a bad idea. You go tell Mrs. Waite to fix you up with a suit. But I would prefer to have you wear your own clothes today.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll tell you why. I telegraphed on to my advance man all about you last night, and what you did yesterday will be spread all over town here today. It will be a rattling good advertisement. You and the tiger are my best drawing cards today,” smiled Mr. Sparling.
“Glad I have proved of some use to you, sir.”
“Use? Use?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t be a fool!” exploded the showman, almost brutally.
Phil’s countenance fell.
“Don’t you understand, yet, that you already have been worth several thousand dollars to me?”
“I—I—”
“Well, don’t get a swelled head about it, for—”
“There is no danger of that, sir.”
“And you don’t have to potter around the cook tent working, either. That is, not unless you want to.”
“But, I do, Mr. Sparling. I want to learn everything there is to be learned about the show business,” protested Phil.
Mr. Sparling regarded him quizzically.
“You’ll do,” he said, turning away.
As soon as the dressing tent had been erected and the baggage was moved in, Phil hurried to the entrance of the women’s dressing tent and calling for Mrs. Waite, told her what was wanted.
She measured his figure with her eyes, and nodded understandingly.
“Think I’ve got something that will fit you. A young fellow who worked on the trapeze fell off and broke a leg. He was just about your size, and I guess his tights will be about right for you. Not superstitious, are you?”
Phil assured her he was not.
“You will be, after you have been in the show business a while. Wait, I’ll get them.”
Phil’s eyes glowed as he saw her returning with a suit of bright red tights, trunk and shirt to match.
“Oh, thank you ever so much.”
“You’re welcome. Have you a trunk to keep your stuff in?”
“No; I have only a bag.”
“I’ve got a trunk in here that’s not in use. If you want to drag it over to the men’s dressing tent you’re welcome to it.”
Phil soon had the trunk, which he hauled across the open paddock to the place where the men were settling their belongings. He espied Mr. Miaco, the head clown.
“Does it make any difference where I place my trunk, Mr. Miaco?”
“It does, my lad. The performers’ trunks occupy exactly the same position every day during the show year. I’ll pick out a place for you, and every morning when you come in you will find your baggage there. Let me see. I guess we’ll place you up at the end, next to the side wall of the dressing room. You will be more by yourself there. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Going in in costume, today?”
“No, sir. Mr. Sparling thought I had better wear my own clothes today, for advertising purposes.”
Miaco nodded understandingly.
“Then you’ll want to fix up again. Been in the gutter?”
“I fell into a ditch in the darkness this morning,” grinned Phil.
“You’ll get used to that. Mr. Ducro, the ringmaster, carries a lantern with him so he won’t fall in, but none of the rest of us do. We call him Old Diogenes because he always has a lantern in his hand. If you’ll take off that suit I’ll put it in shape for you.”
“Undress—here?”
“Sure. You’ll have to get used to that.”
Phil retired to the further end of the tent where his trunk had been placed in the meantime, and there took off his clothes, handing them to the head clown. Mr. Miaco tossed the lad a bath robe, for the morning was still chilly.
“After you get broken in you will have to do all this for yourself. There’s nothing like the show business to teach a fellow to depend upon himself. He soon becomes a jack-of-all-trades. As soon as you can you’ll want to get yourself a rubber coat and a pair of rubber boots. We’ll get some beastly weather by-and-by.”
The good-natured clown ran on with much good advice while he was sponging and pressing Phil’s clothes. When he had finished, the suit looked as if it had just come from a tailor shop.
Phil thanked him warmly.
“Now, you and I will see about some breakfast.”
Reaching the cook tent, the first person Phil set eyes on was his chum, Teddy Tucker. Teddy was presiding over the big nickel coffeepot, his face flushed with importance. He was bossing the grinning waiters, none of whom found it in his heart to get impatient with the new boy.
“Another turn-away,” decided a ticket taker, casting his eyes over the crowds that had gathered for the afternoon performance.
“I guess Mr. Sparling knows his business pretty well,” mused Phil. “He knows how to catch the crowd. I wonder how many of them have come here to see me. How they would look and stare if they knew I was the kid that twisted the tiger’s tail.”
Phil’s color rose.
It was something for a boy who had been a circus performer for less than two days to have his name heralded ahead of the show as one of the leading attractions.
But Phil Forrest had a level head. He did not delude himself with any extravagant idea of his own importance. He knew that what he had done was purely the result of accident.
“I’ll do something, someday, that will be worthwhile,” he told himself.
Phil’s act that afternoon was fully as successful as it had been on the previous day back in his home town. Besides, he now had more confidence in himself. He felt that in a very short time he might be able to keep his feet on the elephant’s head without the support of Emperor’s trunk. That would be an achievement.
On this particular afternoon he rode with as much confidence as if he had been doing it all the season.
“You’ll make a performer,” encouraged Kennedy. “You’ve got the poise and everything necessary to make you a good one.”
“What kind, do you think?”
“Any old kind. Do you get dizzy when up in the air?”
“I don’t remember that I have ever been up much further than Emperor hoists me,” laughed Phil.
For the next two minutes the man and the boy were too busy with their act to continue their conversation. The audience was enthusiastic, and they shouted out Phil Forrest’s name several times, which made him smile happily.
“What would you advise me to do, Mr. Kennedy?” he asked as the elephants started to leave the ring, amid the plaudits of the spectators.
“Ever try the rings?”
“Yes, but not so high up as those that Rod and his partners perform on.”
“Height doesn’t make much difference. Get them to let the rings down so you can reach them, then each day raise them a little higher, if you find you can work on them.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I’ll try it this afternoon. I am anxious to be a real performer. Anybody could do this. Though it’s easy, I think I might work up this act of ours to make it rather funny.”
It will be observed that Phil was rapidly falling into the vernacular of the showman.
“If you’ve got any ideas we’ll thresh them out. Emperor will be willing. He’ll say yes to anything you suggest. What is it?”
“Don’t you think Mr. Sparling would object?”
“Not he. Wait till I get the bulls chained; then we’ll talk.”
After attending to his charges, Mr. Kennedy and Phil stepped behind the elephants and sat down on a pile of straw against the side walls of the menagerie tent.
Phil confided at length what he had in mind, Kennedy nodding from time to time as Phil made points that met with the trainer’s approval.
“Boy, you’ve got a head on you a yard wide. You’ll make your everlasting fortune. Why, I’d never even thought of that before.”
“Don’t you think I had better speak to Mr. Sparling?”
Kennedy reflected for a moment.
“Perhaps you had better do so. But you needn’t tell him what it is. We’ll give them a surprise. Let’s go see the property man and the carpenter. We’ll find out what they can do for us.”
Slipping out under the canvas, the two hurried back to the property room, an enclosure where all the costumes were kept, together with the armor used in the grand entry, and the other trappings employed in the show, known as properties.
Mr. Kennedy explained to the property man what was wanted. The latter called in the carpenter. After consulting for a few minutes, they decided that they could give the elephant trainer and his assistant what they sought.
“When will you have it ready?”
“Maybe in time for tonight’s performance, but I can’t promise for sure.”
“Thank you,” exclaimed Phil, hurrying away to consult with Mr. Sparling.
“I have been thinking out a plan to work up my part of the elephant act,” announced Phil, much to the owner’s surprise.
“You have, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
“I was in hopes you wouldn’t ask me that. I wanted to surprise you.”
Mr. Sparling shook his head doubtfully.
“I’m afraid you haven’t had experience enough to warrant my trusting so important a matter to you,” answered the showman, knowing how serious a bungled act might be, and how it would be likely to weaken the whole show.
Phil’s face showed his disappointment.
“Mr. Kennedy says it will be a fine act. I have seen the property man and the carpenter, and they both think it’s great. They are getting my properties ready now.”
“So, so?” wondered the owner, raising his eyebrows ever so little. “You seem to be making progress, young man. Let’s see, how long have you been in the show business?” he reflected.
“Twenty-four hours,” answered Phil promptly.
Mr. Sparling grinned.
“M-m-m-m. You’re certainly getting on fast. Who told you you might give orders to my property man and my carpenter, sir?” the proprietor demanded, somewhat sternly.
“I took that upon myself, sir. I’m sure it would improve the act, even though I have not had as much experience as I might have. Will you let me try it?” demanded the boy boldly.
“I’ll think about it. Yes, I’ll think about it. H-m-m-m! H-m-m-m!”
Thus encouraged, Phil left his employer, going in to watch some of the other acts.
About that time Mr. Sparling found it convenient to make a trip back to the property man’s room, where he had quite a long talk with that functionary. The proprietor came away smiling and nodding.
About an hour later Phil sauntered out and passed in front of Mr. Sparling’s tent, hoping the showman would see him and call him in.
Phil was not disappointed. Mr. Sparling did that very thing.
“How’s that new act of yours coming along, young man?” he demanded.
“I have done no more than think it over since talking with you a little while ago. If the props are ready Mr. Kennedy and I will have a quiet rehearsal this afternoon. That is, if we can shoo everybody out of the tent and you are willing we should try it. How about it, sir?”
“I must say you are a most persistent young man.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what if this act falls down flat? What then?”
“It mustn’t.”
“But if it does?”
“Then, sir, I’ll give up the show business and go back to Edmeston, where I’ll hire out to work on a farm. If I can’t do a little thing like this I guess the farm will be the best place for me.”
Phil was solemn and he meant every word he said. Mr. Sparling, however, unable to maintain his serious expression, laughed heartily.
“My boy, you are all right. Go ahead and work up your act. You have my full permission to do that in your own way, acting, of course, under the approval of Mr. Kennedy. He knows what would go with his bulls.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” exclaimed Phil, impulsively. “I hope you will be pleasantly surprised.”
“I expect to be.”
Phil ran as fast as his legs would carry him to convey the good news to Mr. Kennedy. Active preparations followed, together with several hurried trips to the property room. The property man was getting along famously with his part of the plan, and both Phil and Mr. Kennedy approved of what had been done thus far.
According to programme, after the afternoon show had been finished and all the performers had gone to the cook tent the rehearsal took place in the menagerie tent. Faithful to his promise, Mr. Sparling kept away, but a pair of eyes representing him was peering through a pin-hole in the canvas stretched across the main opening where the ticket takers stood when at work.
“That’s great, kid! Great, you bet!” shouted Mr. Kennedy after a successful trial of their new apparatus.
With light heart, an expansive grin overspreading his countenance, the lad ran to the cook tent for his supper. He came near missing it as it was, for the cook was about to close the tent. Mr. Sparling, who was standing near the exit, nodded to the chief steward to give Phil and Mr. Kennedy their suppers.
“Well, did the rehearsal fall down?” he asked, with a quizzical smile on his face.
“It fell down, but not in the way you think,” laughed Phil happily.
No further questions were asked of him.
That night, when the grand entry opened the show to a packed house, a shout of laughter from the great assemblage greeted the entrance of old Emperor. Emperor was clad in a calico gown of ancient style, with a market basket tucked in the curl of his trunk. But the most humorous part of the long-suffering elephant’s makeup was his head gear.
There, perched jauntily to one side was the most wonderful bonnet that any of the vast audience ever had gazed upon. It was tied with bright red ribbons under Emperor’s chops with a collection of vari-colored, bobbing roses protruding from its top. Altogether it was a very wonderful piece of head gear.
The further the act proceeded the more the humor of Emperor’s makeup appeared to impress the audience. They laughed and laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks, while the elephant himself, appearing to share in the humor of the hour, never before had indulged in so many funny antics.
Mr. Kennedy, familiar with side-splitting exhibitions, forgot himself so far as actually to laugh out loud.
But where was Phil Forrest? Thus far everybody had been too much interested in the old lady with the trunk and the market basket to give a thought to the missing boy, though some of the performers found themselves wondering if he had closed with the show already.
Those of the performers not otherwise engaged at the moment were assembled inside the big top at one side of the bandstand, fairly holding their sides with laughter over old Emperor’s exhibition.
Standing back in the shadow of the seats, where the rays from the gasoline lamps did not reach, stood Mr. Sparling, a pleased smile on his face, his eyes twinkling with merriment. It was a good act that could draw from James Sparling these signs of approval.
The act was nearing its close.
The audience thought they had seen the best of it. But there was still a surprise to come—a surprise that they did not even dream of.
The time was at hand for the elephants to rear in a grand finale. An attendant quietly led Jupiter from the ring and to his quarters, Emperor making a circuit of the sawdust arena to cover the going of the other elephant and that there might be no cessation of action in the exhibition.
Emperor and his trainer finally halted, standing facing the reserved seats, as motionless as statues.
The audience sat silent and expectant. They felt that something still was before them, but what they had not the least idea, of course.
“Up, Emperor!” commanded Mr. Kennedy in a quiet voice. “All ready, Phil.”
The elephant reared slowly on its hind legs, going higher and higher, as it did in its regular performance.
As he went up, the bonnet on Emperor’s head was seen to take on sudden life. The old calico gown fell away from the huge beast at the same time, leaving him clothed in a brilliant blanket of white and gold.
But a long drawn “a-h-h-h,” rippled over the packed seats as the old elephant’s bonnet suddenly collapsed.
Out of the ruins rose a slender, supple figure, topping the pyramid of elephant flesh in a graceful poise. The figure, clad in red silk tights, appeared to be that of a beautiful girl.
The audience broke out into a thunder of approval, their feet drumming on the board seats sounding not unlike the rattle of musketry.
The girl’s hand was passed around to the back of her waist, where it lingered for an instant, then both hands were thrown forward just as a diver does before taking the plunge.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Fly!”
The young girl floated out and off from the elephant’s back, landing gently on her feet just outside the sawdust ring.
Emperor, at this juncture, threw himself forward on his forelegs, stretched out his trunk, encircling the performer’s waist and lifting her clear off the ground.
At that moment the supposed young woman stripped her blonde wig from her head, revealing the fact that the supposed girl was no girl at all. It was a boy, and that boy was Phil Forrest.
Emperor, holding his young friend at full length ahead of him, started rapidly for his quarters, Phil lying half on his side, appearing to be floating on the air, save for the black trunk that held him securely in its grip.
At this the audience fairly howled in its surprise and delight, but Phil never varied his pose by a hair’s breadth until Emperor finally set him down, flushed and triumphant, in the menagerie tent.
At that moment Phil became conscious of a figure running toward him.
He discovered at once that it was Mr. Sparling.
Grasping both the lad’s hands, the showman wrung them until it seemed to Phil as if his arms would be wrenched from their sockets.
“Great, great, great!” cried the owner of the show.
“Did you like it?” questioned the blushing Phil.
“Like it? Like it? Boy, it’s the greatest act I ever saw. It’s a winner. Come back with me.”
“What, into the ring?”
“Yes.”
“But what shall I do?”
“You don’t have to do anything. You’ve done it already. Show yourself, that’s all. Hurry! Don’t you hear them howling like a band of Comanche Indians?”
“Y-yes.”
“They want you.”
By this time Mr. Sparling was fairly dragging Phil along with him. As they entered the big top the cheering broke out afresh.
Phil was more disturbed than ever before in his life. It seemed as though his legs would collapse under him.
“Buck up! Buck up!” snapped the showman. “You are not going to get an attack of stage fright at this late hour, are you?”
That was exactly what was the matter with Phil Forrest. He was nearly scared out of his wits, but he did not realize the nature of his affliction.
“Bow and kiss your hand to them,” admonished the showman.
Phil did so, but his face refused to smile. He couldn’t have smiled at that moment to save his life.
All at once he wrenched himself loose from Mr. Sparling’s grip, and ran full speed for the dressing tent. He had not gone more than a dozen feet before he tripped over a rope, landing on head and shoulders. But Phil was up like a rubber man and off again as if every animal in the menagerie was pursuing him.
The spectators catching the meaning of his flight, stood up in their seats and howled lustily.
Phil Forrest had made a hit that comes to few men in the sawdust arena.
“That was a knockout, kid,” nodded Mr. Miaco, with emphasis. “I’m laughing on the inside of me yet. I don’t dare let my face laugh, for fear the wrinkles will break through my makeup.”
“Thank you,” smiled Phil, tugging at his silk tights, that fitted so closely as to cause him considerable trouble in stripping them off.
“You’ll have the whole show jealous of you if you don’t watch out. But don’t get a swelled head—”
“Not unless I fall off and bump it,” laughed Phil. “Where do I wash?”
“You always want to get a pail of water before you undress.”
“Say, Phil, did you really fly?” queried Teddy, who was standing by eyeing his companion admiringly.
“Sure. Didn’t you see me?”
“I did and I didn’t. Will you show me how to fly like that?”
“’Course I will. You come in under the big top tomorrow after the show and I’ll give you a lesson.”
Teddy had not happened to observe the simple mechanical arrangement that had permitted the young circus performer to carry out his flying act.
“I reckon you ought to get a dollar a day for that stunt,” decided Teddy.
“Yes, I think so myself,” grinned Phil.
Teddy now turned his attention to Mr. Miaco, who, made up for his clown act in the ring, presented a most grotesque appearance.
“How do I look?” asked the clown, noting the lad’s observant gaze.
“You look as if you’d stuck your head in a flour barrel,” grunted Teddy.
“Ho ho,” laughed the clown. “I’ll have to try that on the audience. That’s a good joke. To look at you, one wouldn’t think it of you, either.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I can say funnier things than that when I want to. Why—”
But their conversation was cut short by the band striking up the tune to which Mr. Miaco always entered the ring.
“Listen to me, kid. You’ll hear them laugh when I tell ’em the story,” he called back. And they did. The audience roared when the funny man told them what his young friend had said.
His work for the day having been finished, Phil bethought himself of his trunk, which had not yet been packed. His costume was suspended from a line in the dressing tent where many other costumes were hanging to air and dry after the strenuous labors of their owners.
Phil took his slender belongings down, shook them out well and laid them in the trunk that Mrs. Waite had given him. It was too late for Phil to get his bag from the baggage wagon, so with a grin he locked his tights and his wig in the trunk.
“Guess they won’t break their backs lifting that outfit,” he mused.
Phil then strolled in to watch the show. He found many new points of interest and much that was instructive, as he studied each act attentively and with the keenness of one who had been in the show business all his life.
“Someday I’ll have a show like this myself,” nodded the boy. He did not know that he expressed his thoughts aloud until he noticed that the people sitting nearest to him were regarding him with amused smiles.
Phil quickly repressed his audible comments.
The show was soon over; then came the noise and the confusion of the breaking up. The illusion was gone—the glamor was a thing of the past. The lad strolled about slowly in search of his companion, whom he eventually found in the dressing tent.
“Teddy, isn’t it about time you and I went to bed?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Circus people sleep when there isn’t anything else to do. Where we going to sleep?”
“Same place, I presume, if no one gets ahead of us.”
“They’d better not. I’ll throw them out if they do.”
Phil laughed good-naturedly.
“If I remember correctly, somebody was thrown out last night and this morning, but it didn’t happen to be the other fellow. I’m hungry; wish I had something to eat.”
“So am I,” agreed Teddy.
“You boys should get a sandwich or so and keep the stuff in your trunk while we are playing these country towns. When we get into the cities, where they have restaurants, you can get a lunch downtown after you have finished your act and then be back in time to go out with the wagons,” Mr. Miaco informed them. “You’ll pick up these little tricks as we go along, and it won’t be long before you are full-fledged showmen. You are pretty near that point already.”
The lads strolled out on the lot and began hunting for their wagon. They found nothing that looked like it for sometime and had about concluded that the canvas wagon had gone, when they chanced to come across the driver of the previous night, who directed them to where they would find it.
“The wagon isn’t loaded yet. You’ll have to wait half an hour or so,” he said.
They thanked him and went on in the direction indicated, where they soon found that which they were in search of.
“I think we had better wait here until it is loaded,” advised Phil, throwing himself down on the ground.
“This having to hunt around over a ten-acre lot for your bedroom every night isn’t as much fun as you would think, is it?” grinned Teddy.
“Might be worse. I have an idea we haven’t begun to experience the real hardships of the circus life.” And indeed they had not.
Soon after that the wagon was loaded, and, bidding the driver a cheery good night, the circus boys tumbled in and crawled under the canvas.
They were awakened sometime before daylight by a sudden heavy downpour of rain. The boys were soaked to the skin, the water having run in under the canvas until they were lying in a puddle of water.
There was thunder and lightning. Phil scrambled out first and glanced up at the driver, who, clothed in oilskins, was huddled on his seat fast asleep. He did not seem to be aware that there was anything unusual about the weather.
“I wish I was home,” growled Teddy.
“Well, I don’t. Bad as it is, it’s better than some other things that I know of. I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll get rubber coats for us both when we get in in the morning.”
“Got the money?”
“That’s so. I had forgotten that,” laughed Phil. “I never thought that I should need money to buy a coat with. We’ll have to wait until payday. I wonder when that is?”
“Ask Mr. Sparling.”
“No; I would rather not.”
“All right; get wet then.”
“I am. I couldn’t be any more so were I to jump in the mill pond at home,” laughed Phil.
Home! It seemed a long way off to these two friendless, or at least homeless, boys, though the little village of Edmeston was less than thirty miles away.
The show did not get in to the next town until sometime after daylight, owing to the heavy condition of the roads. The cook tent was up when they arrived and the lads lost no time in scrambling from the wagon. They did not have to be thrown out this morning.
“Come on,” shouted Phil, making a run for the protection of the cook tent, for the rain was coming down in sheets.
Teddy was not far behind.
“I’m the coffee boy. Where’s the coffee?” he shouted.
“Have it in a few minutes,” answered the attendant who had been so kind to them the previous morning. “Here, you boys, get over by the steam boiler there and dry out your clothes,” he added, noting that their teeth were chattering.
“Wish somebody would pour a pail of water over me,” shivered Teddy.
“Water? What for?”
“To wash the rain off. I’m soaked,” he answered humorously.
They huddled around the steam boiler, the warmth from which they found very comforting in their bedraggled condition.
“I’m steaming like an engine,” laughed Phil, taking off his coat and holding it near the boiler.
“Yes; I’ve got enough of it in my clothes to run a sawmill,” agreed Teddy. “How about that coffee?”
“Here it is.”
After helping themselves they felt much better. Phil, after a time, walked to the entrance of the cook tent and looked out. The same bustle and excitement as on the previous two days was noticeable everywhere, and the men worked as if utterly oblivious of the fact that the rain was falling in torrents.
“Do we parade today?” called Phil, observing Mr. Sparling hurrying past wrapped in oilskins and slouch hat.
“This show gives a parade and two performances a day, rain, shine, snow or earthquake,” was the emphatic answer. “Come over to my tent in half an hour. I have something to say to you.”
Phil ran across to Mr. Sparling’s tent at the expiration of half an hour, but he was ahead of time evidently, for the showman was not there. Nice dry straw had been piled on the ground in the little tent to take up the moisture, giving it a cosy, comfortable look inside.
“This wouldn’t be a half bad place to sleep,” decided Phil, looking about him. “I don’t suppose we ever play the same town two nights in succession. I must find out.”
Mr. Sparling bustled in at this point, stripping off his wet oilskins and hanging them on a hook on the tent pole at the further end.
“Where’d you sleep?”
“In wagon No. 10.”
“Get wet?”
“Very.”
“Humph!”
“We dried out in the cook tent when we got in. It might have been worse.”
“Easily satisfied, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know about that. I expect to meet with some disagreeable experiences.”
“You won’t be disappointed. You’ll get all that’s coming to you. It’ll make a man of you if you stand it.”
“And if I don’t?” questioned Phil Forrest, with a smile.
Mr. Sparling answered by a shrug of the shoulders.
“We’ll have to make some different arrangements for you,” he added in a slightly milder tone. “Can’t afford to have you get sick and knock your act out. It’s too important. I’ll fire some lazy, good-for-nothing performer out of a closed wagon and give you his place.”
“Oh, I should rather not have you do that, sir.”
“Who’s running this show?” snapped the owner.
Phil made no reply.
“I am. I’ll turn out whom I please and when I please. I’ve been in the business long enough to know when I’ve got a good thing. Where’s your rubber coat?” he demanded, changing the subject abruptly.
“I have none, sir. I shall get an outfit later.”
“No money, I suppose?”
“Well, no, sir.”
“Humph! Why didn’t you ask for some?”
“I did not like to.”
“You’re too modest. If you want a thing go after it. That’s my motto. Here’s ten dollars. Go downtown and get you a coat, and be lively about it. Wait a minute!” as Phil, uttering profuse thanks, started away to obey his employer’s command.
“Yes, sir.”
“About that act of yours. Did you think it out all yourself?”
“The idea was mine. Of course the property man and Mr. Kennedy worked it out for me. I should not have been able to do it alone.”
“Humph! Little they did. They wouldn’t have thought of it in a thousand years. Performers usually are too well satisfied with themselves to think there’s anything worthwhile except what they’ve been doing since they came out of knickerbockers. How’d you get the idea?”
“I don’t know—it just came to me.”
“Then keep on thinking. That act is worth real money to any show. How much did I say I’d pay you?”
“Ten dollars a week, sir.”
“Humph! I made a mistake. I won’t give you ten.”
Phil looked solemn.
“I’ll give you twenty. I’d give you more, but it might spoil you. Get out of here and go buy yourself a coat.”
“Tha—thank—”
“Out with you!”
Laughing, his face flushed with pride and satisfaction, Phil did move. Not even pausing to note what direction he should go, he hurried on toward the village, perhaps more by instinct than otherwise. He was too full of this wonderful thing that had come to him—success—to take note of his surroundings.
To Phil there was no rain. Though he already was drenched to the skin he did not know it.
All at once he pulled himself up sharply.
“Phil Forrest, you are getting excited,” he chided. “Now, don’t you try to make yourself believe you are the whole show, for you are only a little corner of it. You are not even a side show. You are a lucky boy, but you are going to keep your head level and try to earn your money. Twenty dollars a week! Why, it’s wealth! I can see Uncle Abner shaking his stick when he hears of it. I must write to Mrs. Cahill and tell her the good news. She’ll be glad, though I’ll warrant the boys at home will be jealous when they hear about how I am getting on in the world.”
Thus talking to himself, Phil plodded on in the storm until he reached the business part of the town. There he found a store and soon had provided himself with a serviceable rubber coat, a pair of rubber boots and a soft hat. He put on his purchases, doing up his shoes and carrying them back under his arm.
The parade started at noon. It was a dismal affair—that is, so far as the performers were concerned, and the clowns looked much more funny than they felt.
Mr. Miaco enlivened the spirits of those on the hayrack by climbing to the back of one of the horses drawing the clowns’ wagon, where he sat with a doll’s parasol over his head and a doll in his arms singing a lullaby.
The people who were massed along the sidewalks of the main street did not appear to mind the rain at all. They were too much interested in the free show being given for their benefit.
The show people ate dinner with their feet in the mud that day, the cook tent having been pitched on a barren strip of ground.
“This is where the Armless Wonder has the best of us today,” nodded Teddy, with his usual keen eye for humor.
“How is that?” questioned Mr. Miaco.
“’Cause he don’t have to put his feet in the mud like the rest of us do. He keeps them on the table. I wish I could put my feet on the table.”
Everybody within hearing laughed heartily.
In the tents there was little to remind one of the dismal weather, save for the roar of the falling rain on the canvas overhead. Straw had been piled all about on the ground inside the two large tents, and only here and there were there any muddy spots, though the odor of fresh wet grass was everywhere.
The afternoon performance went off without a hitch, though the performers were somewhat more slow than usual, owing to the uncertainty of the footing for man and beast. Phil Forrest’s exhibition was even more successful than it had been in the last show town. He was obliged to run back to the ring and show himself after having been carried from the tent by Emperor. This time, however, his stage fright had entirely left him, never to return. He was now a seasoned showman, after something less than three days under canvas.
The afternoon show being finished, and supper out of the way, Phil and Teddy returned to the big top to practice on the flying rings, which they had obtained permission to use.
Mr. Miaco, himself an all around acrobat, was on hand to watch their work and to offer suggestions. He had taken a keen interest in Phil Forrest, seeing in the lad the making of a high-class circus performer.
The rings were let down to within about ten feet of the sawdust ring, and one at a time the two lads were hoisted by the clown until their fingers grasped the iron rings.
With several violent movements of their bodies they curled their feet up, slipping them through the rings, first having grasped the ropes above the rings.
“That was well done. Quite professional,” nodded the clown. “Take hold of this rope and I will swing you. If it makes you dizzy, tell me.”
“Don’t worry; it won’t,” laughed Phil.
“Give me a shove, too,” urged Teddy.
“In a minute.”
Mr. Miaco began swinging Phil backwards and forwards, his speed ever increasing, and as he went higher and higher, Phil let himself down, fastening his hands on the rings that he might assist in the swinging.
“Now, see if you can get back in the rings with your legs.”
“That’s easy,” answered Phil, his breath coming sharp and fast, for he never had taken such a long sweep in the rings before.
The feat was not quite so easy as he had imagined. Phil made three attempts before succeeding. But he mastered it and came up smiling.
“Good,” cried the clown, clapping his hands approvingly.
“Give me another swing. I want to try something else.”
Having gained sufficient momentum, the lad, after reaching the point where the rings would start on their backward flight, permitted his legs to slip through the rings, catching them with his feet.
He swept back, head and arms hanging down, as skillfully as if he had been doing that very thing right along.
“You’ll do,” emphasized the clown. “You will need to put a little more finish in your work. I’ll give you a lesson in that next time.”
Teddy, not to be outdone, went through the same exhibition, though not quite with the same speed that Phil had shown.
It being the hour when the performers always gathered in the big top to practice and play, many of them stood about watching the boys work. They nodded their heads approvingly when Phil finished and swung himself to the ground.
Teddy, on his part, overrated his ability when it came to hanging by his feet.
“Look out!” warned half a dozen performers at once.
He had not turned his left foot into the position where it would catch and hold in the ring. Their trained eyes had noted this omission instantly.
The foot, of course, failed to catch, and Teddy uttered a howl when he found himself falling. His fall, however, was checked by a sharp jolt. The right foot had caught properly. As he swept past the laughing performers he was dangling in the air like a huge spider, both hands and one foot clawing the air in a desperate manner.
There was nothing they could do to liberate him from his uncomfortable position until the momentum of his swing had lessened sufficiently to enable them to catch him.
“Hold your right steady!” cautioned Miaco. “If you twist it you’ll take a beauty tumble.”
Teddy hadn’t thought of that before. Had Miaco known the lad better he would not have made the mistake of giving that advice.
Teddy promptly turned his foot.
He shot from the flying rings as if he had been fired from a cannon.
Phil tried to catch him, but stumbled and fell over a rope, while Teddy shot over his head, landing on and diving head first into a pile of straw that had just been brought in to bed down the tent for the evening performance.
Nothing of Teddy save his feet was visible.
They hauled him out by those selfsame feet, and, after disentangling him from the straws that clung to him, were relieved to find that he had not been hurt in the least.
“I guess we shall have to put a net under you. Lucky for you that that pile of straw happened to get in your way. Do you know what would have happened to you had it not been?” demanded Mr. Miaco.
“I—I guess I’d have made a hit,” decided Teddy wisely.
“I guess there is no doubt about that.”
The performers roared.
“I’m going to try it again.”
“No; you’ve done enough for one day. You won’t be able to hold up the coffeepot tomorrow morning if you do much more.”
“Do you think we will be able to accomplish anything on the flying rings, Mr. Miaco?” asked Phil after they had returned to the dressing tent.
“There is no doubt of it. Were I in your place I should take an hour’s work on them every day. Besides building you up generally, it will make you surer and better able to handle yourself. Then, again, you never know what minute you may be able to increase your income. People in this business often profit by others’ misfortunes,” added the clown significantly.
“I would prefer not to profit that way,” answered Phil.
“You would rather do it by your own efforts?”
“Yes.”
“It all amounts to the same thing. You are liable to be put out any minute yourself, then somebody else will get your job, if you are a performer of importance to the show.”
“You mean if my act is?”
“That’s what I mean.”
The old clown and the enthusiastic young showman talked in the dressing tent until it was time for each to begin making up for the evening performance.
The dressing tent was the real home of the performers. They knew no other. It was there that they unpacked their trunks—there that during their brief stay they pinned up against the canvas walls the pictures of their loved ones, many of whom were far across the sea. A bit of ribbon here, a faded flower drawn from the recess of a trunk full of silk and spangles, told of the tender hearts that were beating beneath those iron-muscled breasts, and that they were as much human beings as their brothers in other walks of life.
Much of this Phil understood in a vague way as he watched them from day to day. He was beginning to like these big-hearted, big-muscled fellows, though there were those among them who were not desirable as friends.
“I guess it’s just the same as it is at home,” decided Phil. “Some of the folks are worthwhile, and others are not.”
He had summed it up.
Sometime before the evening performance was due to begin Phil was made up and ready for his act. As his exhibition came on at the very beginning he had to be ready early. Then, again, he was obliged to walk all the way to the menagerie tent to reach his elephant.
Throwing a robe over his shoulders and pulling his hat well down over his eyes, the lad pushed the silken curtains aside and began working his way toward the front, beating against the human tide that had set in against him, wet, dripping, but good natured.
“Going to have a wet night,” observed Teddy, whom he met at the entrance to the menagerie tent.
“Looks that way. But never mind; I’ll share my rubber coat with you. We can put it over us and sit up to sleep. That will make a waterproof tent. Perhaps we may be able to find a stake or something to stick up in the middle of the coat.”
“But the canvas under us will be soaked,” grumbled Teddy. “We’ll be wetter than ever.”
“We’ll gather some straw and tie it up in a tight bundle to put under us when we get located. There goes the band. I must be off, or you’ll hear Emperor screaming for me.”
“He’s at it now. Hear him?”
“I couldn’t well help hearing that roar,” laughed Phil, starting off on a run.
The grand entry was made, Phil crouching low in the bonnet on the big beast’s head. It was an uncomfortable position, but he did not mind it in the least. The only thing that troubled Phil was the fear that the head gear might become disarranged and spoil the effect of his surprise. There were many in the tent who had seen him make his flight at the afternoon performance, and had returned with their friends almost solely to witness the pretty spectacle again.
The time had arrived for Emperor to rise for his grand salute to the audience. Mr. Kennedy had given Phil his cue, the lad had braced himself to straighten up suddenly. A strap had been attached to the elephant’s head harness for Phil to take hold of to steady himself by when he first straightened up. Until his position was erect Emperor could not grasp the boy’s legs with his trunk.
“Right!” came the trainer’s command.
The circus boy thrust out his elbows, and the bonnet fell away, as he rose smiling to face the sea of white, expectant faces before him.
While they were applauding he fastened the flying wire to the ring in his belt. The wire, which was suspended from above, was so small that it was wholly invisible to the spectators, which heightened the effect of his flight. So absorbed were the people in watching the slender figure each time that they failed to observe an attendant hauling on a rope near the center pole, which was the secret of Phil’s ability to fly.
Throwing his hands out before him the little performer dove gracefully out into the air.
There was a slight jolt. Instantly he knew that something was wrong. The audience, too, instinctively felt that the act was not ending as it should.
Phil was falling. He was plunging straight toward the ring, head first. He struck heavily, crumpling up in a little heap, then straightening out, while half a dozen attendants ran to the lad, hastily picking him up and hurrying to the dressing tent with the limp, unconscious form.
“Is he hurt much?”
“Don’t know. Maybe he’s broken his neck.”
This brief dialogue ensued between two painted clowns hurrying to their stations.
In the meantime the band struck up a lively air, the clowns launched into a merry medley of song and jest and in a few moments the spectators forgot the scene they had just witnessed, in the noise, the dash and the color. It would come back to them later like some long-past dream.
Mr. Kennedy, with grim, set face, uttered a stern command to Emperor, who for a brief instant had stood irresolute, as if pondering as to whether he should turn and plunge for the red silk curtains behind which his little friend had disappeared in the arms of the attendants.
The trainer’s voice won, and Emperor trumpeting loudly, took his way to his quarters without further protest.
In the dressing tent another scene was being enacted. On two drawn-up trunks, over which had been thrown a couple of horse blankets, they had laid the slender, red-clad figure of Phil Forrest.
The boy’s pale face appeared even more ashen than it really was under the flickering glare of the gasoline torches. His head had been propped up on a saddle, while about him stood a half circle of solemn-faced performers in various stages of undress and makeup.
“Is he badly hurt?” asked one.
“Can’t say. Miaco has gone for the doc. We’ll know pretty soon. That was a dandy tumble he took.”
“How did it happen?”
“Wire broke. You can’t put no faith on a wire with a kink in it. I nearly got my light put out, out in St. Joe, Missouri, by a trick like that. No more swinging wire for me. Guess the kid, if he pulls out of this, will want to hang on to a rope after this. He will if he’s wise.”
“What’s this? What’s this?” roared Mr. Sparling, who, having heard of the accident, came rushing into the tent. “Who’s hurt?”
“The kid,” informed someone.
“What kid? Can’t you fellows talk? Oh, it’s Forrest, is it? How did it happen?”
One of the performers who had witnessed the accident related what he had observed.
“Huh!” grunted the showman, stepping up beside Phil and placing a hand on the boy’s heart.
“Huh!”
“He’s alive, isn’t he, Mr. Sparling?”
“Yes. Anybody gone for the doctor?”
“Miaco has.”
“Wonder any of you had sense enough to think of that. I congratulate you. Somebody will suffer when I find out who was responsible for hanging that boy’s life on a rotten old piece of wire. I presume it’s been kicking around this outfit for the last seven years.”
“Here comes the doc,” announced a voice.
There was a tense silence in the dressing tent, broken only by the patter of the rain drops on the canvas roof, while the show’s surgeon was making his examination.
“Well, well! What about it?” demanded Mr. Sparling impatiently.
The surgeon did not answer at once. His calm, professional demeanor was not to be disturbed by the blustering but kind- hearted showman, and the showman, knowing this from past experience, relapsed into silence until such time as the surgeon should conclude to answer him.
“Did he fall on his head?” he questioned, looking up, at the same time running his fingers over Phil’s dark-brown hair.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“I should say so.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“I shall be unable to decide definitely for an hour or so yet, unless he regains consciousness in the meantime. It may be a fracture of the skull or a mere concussion.”
“Huh!”
Mr. Sparling would have said more, but for the fact that the calm eyes of the surgeon were fixed upon him in a level gaze.
“Any bones broken?”
“No; I think not. How far did he fall?”
“Fell from Emperor’s head when the bull was up in the air. He must have taken all of a twenty-foot dive, I should say.”
“Possible? It’s a great wonder he didn’t break his neck. But he is very well muscled for a boy of his age. I don’t suppose they have a hospital in this town?”
“Of course not. They never have anything in these tank towns. You ought to know that by this time.”
“They have a hotel. I know for I took dinner there today. If you will get a carriage of some sort I think we had better take him there.”
“Leave him, you mean?” questioned Mr. Sparling.
“Yes; that will be best. We can put him in charge of a local physician here. He ought to be able to take care of the boy all right.”
“Not by a jug full!” roared Mr. James Sparling. “We’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“It will not be safe to take him with us, Sparling.”
“Did I say it would? Did I? Of course, he shan’t be moved, nor will he be left to one of these know-nothing sawbones. You’ll stay here with him yourself, and you’ll take care of him if you know what’s good for you. I’d rather lose most any five men in this show than that boy there.”
The surgeon nodded his approval of the sentiment. He, too, had taken quite a fancy to Phil, because of the lad’s sunny disposition and natural brightness.
“Get out the coach some of you fellows. Have my driver hook up and drive back into the paddock here, and be mighty quick about it. Here, doc, is a head of lettuce (roll of money). If you need any more, you know where to reach us. Send me a telegram in the morning and another tomorrow night. Keep me posted and pull that boy out of this scrape or you’ll be everlastingly out of a job with the Sparling Combined Shows. Understand?”
The surgeon nodded understandingly. He had heard Mr. Sparling bluster on other occasions, and it did not make any great impression upon him.
The carriage was quickly at hand. Circus people were in the habit of obeying orders promptly. A quick drive was made to the hotel, where the circus boy was quickly undressed and put to bed.
All during the night the surgeon worked faithfully over his little charge, and just as the first streaks of daylight slanted through the window and across the white counterpane, Phil opened his eyes.
For only a moment did they remain open, then closed again.
The surgeon drew a long, deep breath.
“Not a fracture,” he announced aloud. “I’m thankful for that.” He drew the window shades down to shut out the light, as it was all important that Phil should be kept quiet for a time. But the surgeon did not sleep. He sat keen-eyed by the side of the bed, now and then noting the pulse of his patient, touching the lad’s cheeks with light fingers.
After a time the fresh morning air, fragrant with the fields and flowers, drifted in, and the birds in the trees took up their morning songs.
“I guess the storm must be over,” muttered the medical man, rising softly and peering out from behind the curtain.
The day was dawning bright and beautiful.
“My, it feels good to be in bed!” said a voice from the opposite side of the room. “Where am I?”
The surgeon wheeled sharply.
“You are to keep very quiet. You had a tumble that shook you up considerably.”
“What time is it?” demanded Phil sharply.
“About five o’clock in the morning.”
“I must get up; I must get up.”
“You will lie perfectly still. The show will get along without you today, I guess.”
“You don’t mean they have gone on and left me?”
“Of course; they couldn’t wait for you.”
The boys eyes filled with tears.
“I knew it couldn’t last. I knew it.”
“See here, do you want to join the show again?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Well, then, lie still. The more quiet you keep the sooner you will be able to get out. Try to go to sleep. I must go downstairs and send a message to Mr. Sparling, for he is very much concerned about you.”
“Then he will take me back?” asked Phil eagerly.
“Of course he will.”
“I’ll go to sleep, doctor.”
Phil turned over on his side and a moment later was breathing naturally.
The doctor tip-toed from the room and hastened down to the hotel office where he penned the following message:
James Sparling,
Sparling Combined Shows,
Boyertown.
Forrest recovers consciousness. Not a fracture. Expect him to be all right in a few days. Will stay unless further orders.
Irvine.
“I think I’ll go upstairs and get a bit of a nap myself,” decided the surgeon, after having directed the sleepy clerk to see to it that the message was dispatched to its destination at once.
He found Phil sleeping soundly. Throwing himself into a chair the surgeon, used to getting a catnap whenever and wherever possible, was soon sleeping as soundly as was his young patient.
Neither awakened until the day was nearly done.
Phil’s recovery was rapid, though four days passed before he was permitted to leave his bed. As soon as he was able to get downstairs and sit out on the front porch of the hotel he found himself an object of interest as well as curiosity.
The story of his accident had been talked of until it had grown out of all proportion to the real facts in the case. The boys of the village hung over the porch rail and eyed him wonderingly and admiringly. It did not fall to their lot every day to get acquainted with a real circus boy. They asked him all manner of questions, which the lad answered gladly, for even though he had suffered a severe accident, he was not beyond enjoying the admiration of his fellows.
“It must be great to be a circus boy,” marveled one.
“It is until you fall off and crack your head,” laughed Phil. “It’s not half so funny then.”
After returning to his room that day Phil pondered deeply over the accident. He could not understand it.
“Nobody seems to know what really did happen,” he mused. “Dr. Irvine says the wire broke. That doesn’t seem possible.”
Off in the little dog tent of the owner of the show, Mr. James Sparling, on the day following the accident, was asking himself almost the same questions.
He sent for Mr. Kennedy after having disposed of his early morning business. There was a scowl on the owner’s face, but it had not been caused by the telegram which lay on the desk before him, informing him that Phil was not seriously hurt. That was a source of keen satisfaction to the showman, for he felt that he could not afford to lose the young circus boy.
Teddy was so upset over it, however, that the boss had about made up his mind to let Phil’s companion go back and join him.
While the showman was thinking the matter over, Mr. Kennedy appeared at the opening of the dog tent.
“Morning,” he greeted, which was responded to by a muttered “Huh!” from James Sparling.
“Come in. What are you standing out there for?”
Kennedy was so used to this form of salutation that he paid no further attention to it than to obey the summons.
He entered and stood waiting for his employer to speak.
“I want you to tell me exactly what occurred last night, when young Forrest got hurt, Kennedy.”
“I can’t tell you any more about it than you heard last night. He had started to make his dive before I noticed that anything was wrong. He didn’t stop until he landed on his head. They said the wire snapped.”
“Did it?”
“I guess so,” grinned Kennedy.
“Who is responsible for having picked out that wire?”
“I guess I am.”
“And you have the face to stand there and tell me so?”
“I usually tell the truth, don’t I?”
“Yes, yes; you do. That’s what I like about you.”
“Heard from the kid this morning?”
“Yes; he’ll be all right in a few days. Concussion and general shaking up; that’s all, but it’s enough. How are the bulls this morning?”
“Emperor is sour. Got a regular grouch on.”
“Misses that young rascal Phil, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“H-m-m-m!”
“Didn’t want to come through last night at all.”
“H-m-m-m. Guess we’d better fire you and let the boy handle the bulls; don’t you think so?”
The trainer grinned and nodded.
“Kennedy, you’ve been making your brags that you always tell me the truth. I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to see if you can make that boast good.”
“Yes, sir.”
Perhaps the trainer understood something of what was in his employer’s mind, for his lips closed sharply while his jaw took on a belligerent look.
“How did that wire come to break, Kennedy?”
The question came out with a snap, as if the showman already had made up his mind as to what the answer should be.
“It was cut, sir,” answered the trainer promptly.
The lines in Mr. Sparling’s face drew hard and tense. Instead of a violent outburst of temper, which Kennedy fully expected, the owner sat silently contemplating his trainer for a full minute.
“Who did it?”
“I couldn’t guess.”
“I didn’t ask you to guess. I can guess for myself. I asked who did it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea who would do a job like that in this show. I hope the mean hound will take French leave before I get him spotted, sir.”
Mr. Sparling nodded with emphasis.
“I hope so, Kennedy. What makes you think the wire was cut?”
With great deliberation the trainer drew a small package from his inside coat pocket, carefully unwrapped it, placing the contents on the table in front of Mr. Sparling.
“What’s this—what’s this?”
“That’s the wire.”
“But there are two pieces here—”
“Yes. I cut off a few feet on each side of where the break occurred. Those are the two.”
Mr. Sparling regarded them critically.
“How can you tell that the wire has been cut, except where you cut it yourself?”
“It was cut halfway through with a file, as you can see, sir. When Forrest threw his weight on it, of course the wire parted at the weakened point.”
“H-m-m-m.”
“If you will examine it, an inch or two above the cut, you will find two or three file marks, where the file started to cut, then was moved down. Probably slipped. Looks like it. Don’t you think I’m right, sir?”
Mr. Sparling nodded reflectively.
“There can be no doubt of it. You think it was done between the two performances yesterday?”
“Oh, yes. That cut wouldn’t have held through one performance. It was cut during the afternoon.”
“Who was in the tent between the shows?”
“Pretty much the whole crowd. But, if you will remember, the day was dark and stormy. There was a time late in the afternoon, before the torches were lighted, when the big top was almost in darkness. It’s my idea that the job was done then. Anybody could have done it without being discovered. It’s likely there wasn’t anybody in the tent except himself at the time.”
“Kennedy, I want you to find out who did that. Understand?”
“The boss has an awful grouch on.”
“Yes; I wonder what’s the matter with him,” pondered the clown.
His brother fun-maker shrugged his shoulders.
“Guess he’s mad because of young Forrest’s accident. Just got a good act started when he had to go and spoil it.”
Not a hint of the suspicion entertained by the owner and his elephant trainer had been breathed about the show. Nearly a week had passed since Phil’s narrow escape from death; yet, despite all the efforts of Kennedy or the shrewd observation of his employer, they were no nearer a solution of the mystery than before. The days passed, and with them the anger of James Sparling increased.
“That chum of Forrest’s is a funny fellow,” continued the first speaker. “He’d make a good clown?”
“Make? He’s one already. Look at him.”
Teddy was perched on the back of Jumbo, the trick mule of the show, out in the paddock, where the performers were indulging in various strange antics for the purpose of limbering themselves up prior to entering the ring for their acts.
The bright, warm sunlight was streaming down, picking up little flames from the glistening spangles sprinkled over the costumes of many of the circus folks.
Teddy and Jumbo had become fast friends—a strangely assorted pair, and whenever the opportunity presented itself Teddy would mount the ugly looking mule, riding him about the paddock or the ring when there was nothing going on under the big top. Every time the pair made their appearance it was the signal for a shout of merriment from the performers.
Teddy had perched himself on Jumbo’s back while the mule was awaiting his turn to enter the ring, which he did alone, performing his act with nothing save the crack of the ringmaster’s whip to guide him.
Somebody had jammed a clown’s cap on Teddy’s head, while someone else had hit it a smash with the flat of his hand, until the peak of the cap lopped over to one side disconsolately.
Teddy’s face wore an appreciative grin, Jumbo’s long ears lying as far back on his head as they would reach. To the ordinary observer it might have been supposed that the mule was angry about something. On the contrary, it was his way of showing his pleasure. When a pan of oats was thrust before Jumbo, or he chanced upon a patch of fresh, tender grass, the ears expressed the animal’s satisfaction.
Jumbo could do pretty much everything except talk, but occasionally the stubbornness of his kind took possession of him. At such times the trick mule was wont to do the most erratic things.
“How’d you like to ride him in?” chuckled Miaco, who stood regarding the lad with a broad smile.
“If I had a saddle I wouldn’t mind it,” grinned Teddy’s funny face as an accompaniment to his words.
Jumbo’s equipment consisted of a cinch girth and a pair of bridle reins connected with a headstall. There was no bit, but the effect was to arch his neck like that of a proud stallion.
“You’d make the hit of your life if you did,” laughed Miaco. “Wonder the boss don’t have you do it.”
“Would if he knew about it,” spoke up a performer. “The really funny things don’t get into the ring in a circus, unless by accident.”
In the meantime the ringmaster was making his loud-voiced announcement out under the big top.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he roared, after a loud crack of his long-lashed whip, to attract the attention of the people to him, “we are now about to introduce the wonderful performing mule Jumbo, the only broncho-bucking, bobtailed mule in the world. You will notice that he performs without a rider, without human interference. Please do not speak to Jumbo while he is going through his act. Ladies and gentlemen, Jumbo, the great educated mule, will now make his appearance unaided by human hand.”
The audience applauded the announcement.
At that moment the band struck up the tune by which Jumbo always made his entrance. At the first blare of the brass a fun-loving clown jabbed Jumbo with a pin. The mule did the rest.
“Here! Here! Get off that mule!” shouted the animal’s trainer. “He’s going on!”
“Let him go!” roared clowns and other performers.
Jumbo had never made as quick a start in all his circus career as he did that day. He fairly leaped into the air, though only one man understood the reason for the mule’s sudden move.
With a bray that was heard all over the big top Jumbo burst through the red curtains like a tornado. There he paused for one brief instant, as if uncertain whether to do a certain thing or not.
Recalling the ringmaster’s words, the spectators at first were at a loss to account for the odd-looking figure that was clinging to the back of the educated mule.
Suddenly they broke out into roars of laughter, while the performers peering through the red curtain fairly howled with delight.
Teddy was hanging to the cinch girth uncertain what to do. The ringmaster, amazed beyond words, stood gaping at the spectacle, for the moment powerless to use his usually ready tongue.
Jumbo launched into the arena.
“Get off!” thundered the ringmaster, suddenly recovering himself.
“I can’t!” howled Teddy, though from present indications it appeared as if he would dismount without any effort on his own part.
Jumbo’s heels flew into the air, then began a series of lunges, bucking and terrific kicking such as none among the vast audience ever had witnessed in or out of a show ring.
One instant Teddy would be standing on his head on the mule’s back, the next lying on his back with feet toward the animal’s head. Next he would be dragged along the ground, to be plumped back again at the next bounce.
No feat seemed too difficult for Jumbo to attempt that day.
“Stop him! Stop him!” howled the ringmaster.
Ring attendants rushed forward to obey his command, but they might as well have tried to stop a tornado. Jumbo eluded them without the least trouble, but their efforts to keep out of range of his flying hoofs were not so easy. Some of them had narrow escapes from being seriously injured.
Mr. Sparling, attracted by the roars of laughter of the audience and the unusual disturbance, had hurried into the big top, where he stood, at first in amazement, then with a broad grin overspreading his countenance.
Now Jumbo began a race with himself about the arena, following the concourse, now and then sending his heels into the air right over the heads of the spectators of the lower row of seats, sending them scrambling under the seats for protection.
A clown ran out with half a dozen paper covered hoops, which he was holding in readiness for the next bareback act.
He flaunted them in the face of the runaway mule.
Jumbo ducked his head under them and Teddy Tucker’s head went through the paper with a crash, the mule’s heels at that instant being high in the air.
With the rings hung about his neck, Teddy cut a more ridiculous figure than ever. The audience went wild with excitement.
Now the ringmaster, angered beyond endurance, began reaching for Teddy with the long lash of his whip. The business end of the lash once brushed the boy’s cheek.
It stung him.
“Ouch!” howled Teddy as he felt the lash.
“Stop that!” exploded Mr. Sparling, who, by this time, had gotten into the ring to take a hand in the performance himself. He grabbed the irate ringmaster by the collar, giving him a jerk that that functionary did not forget in a hurry.
Jumbo, however, was no respecter of persons. He had taken a short cut across the ring just as the owner had begun his correction of the ringmaster. Jumbo shook out his heels again. They caught the owner’s sombrero and sent it spinning into the air.
Mr. Sparling, in his excitement, forgot all about the ringmaster. Picking up a tent stake, he hurled it after the educated mule, missing him by a full rod.
The audience by this time was in a tempest of excitement. At first they thought it was all a part of the show. But they were soon undeceived, which made their enjoyment and appreciation all the greater.
Jumbo took a final sprint about the arena, Teddy’s legs and free arm most of the time in the air. He had long since lost his clown’s cap, which Jumbo, espying, had kicked off into the audience.
“You fool mule! You fool mule!” bellowed Mr. Sparling.
Jumbo suddenly decided that he would go back to the paddock. With him, to decide was to act. Taking a fresh burst of speed, he shot straight at the red curtains. To reach these he was obliged to pass close to the bandstand, where the band was playing as if the very existence of the show depended upon them.
Teddy’s grip was relaxing. His arm was so benumbed that he could not feel that he had any arm on that side at all.
His fingers slowly relaxed their grip on the cinch girth. In a moment he had bounced back to the educated mule’s rump. In another instant he would be plumped to the hard ground with a jolt that would shake him to his foundations.
But Jumbo had other plans—more spectacular plans—in mind. He put them into execution at once. The moment he felt his burden slipping over his back that active end grew busy again. Jumbo humped himself, letting out a volley of kicks so lightning-like in their swiftness that human eye could not follow.
Teddy had slipped half over the mule’s rump when the volley began.
“Catch him! He’ll be killed!” shouted someone.
All at once the figure of Teddy Tucker shot straight up into the air, propelled there by the educated mule. The lad’s body described what somebody afterwards characterized as “graceful somersault in the air,” then began its downward flight.
He landed right in the midst of the band.
Crash!
There was a yell of warning, a jingle and clatter of brass, several chairs went down under the impact, the floor gave way and half the band, with Teddy Tucker in the middle of the heap, sank out of sight.
“Is he dead?”
“No; you can’t kill a thick-head like that,” snarled the ringmaster.
The audience was still roaring.
With angry imprecations the members of the band who had fallen through were untangling themselves as rapidly as possible. Teddy, in the meantime, had dragged himself from beneath the heap and slunk out from under the broken platform. He lost no time in escaping to the paddock, but the bandmaster, espying him, started after the lad, waving his baton threateningly.
No sooner had Teddy gained the seclusion of the dressing tent than James Sparling burst in.
“Where’s that boy? Where’s that boy?”
“Here he is,” grinned a performer, thrusting Teddy forward, much against the lad’s inclinations.
Mr. Sparling surveyed him with narrow eyes.
“You young rascal! Trying to break up my show, are you?”
“N-no—sir.”
“Can you do that again, do you think?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“That’s the greatest Rube mule act that ever hit a sawdust ring. I’ll double your salary if you think you can get away with it every performance,” fairly shouted the owner.
“I—I’m willing if the mule is,” stammered Teddy somewhat doubtfully.
As a result the lad left his job in the cook tent, never to return to it. After many hard knocks and some heavy falls he succeeded in so mastering the act that he was able to go through with it without great risk of serious injury to himself. The educated mule and the boy became a feature of the Sparling Combined Shows from that moment on, but after that Teddy took good care not to round off his act by a high dive into the big bass horn.
No one was more delighted at Teddy Tucker’s sudden leap to fame than was his companion, Phil Forrest. Phil and Dr. Irvine returned to the show, one afternoon, about a week after the accident. They had come on by train.
Phil, though somewhat pale after his setback, was clear-eyed, and declared himself as fit as ever. He insisted upon going on with his act at the evening performance, but Mr. Sparling told him to wait until the day following. In the meantime Phil could get his apparatus in working order.
“I’ll look it over myself this time,” announced the showman. “I don’t want any more such accidents happening in this show. Your friend Teddy nearly put the whole outfit to the bad—he and the fool mule.”
That afternoon Phil had an opportunity to witness for himself the exhibition of his companion and the “fool mule.” He laughed until his sides ached.
“O Teddy, you’ll break your neck doing that stunt one of these times,” warned Phil, hastening back to the dressing tent after Teddy and the mule had left the ring.
“Don’t you think it’s worth the risk?”
“That depends.”
“For two dollars a day?”
“Is that what you are getting?”
“Yep. I’m a high-priced performer,” insisted Teddy, snapping his trousers pocket significantly. “I’d jump off the big top, twice every day, for that figure.”
“What are you going to do with all your money? Spend it?”
“I—rather thought I’d buy a bicycle.”
Phil shook his head.
“You couldn’t carry it, and, besides, nobody rides bicycles these days. They ride in automobiles.”
“Then I’ll buy one of them.”
“I’ll tell you what you do, Teddy.”
“Lend the money to you, eh?”
“No; I am earning plenty for myself. But every week, now, I shall send all my money home to Mrs. Cahill. I wrote to her about it while I was sick. She is going to put it in the bank for me at Edmeston, with herself appointed as trustee. That’s necessary, you see, because I am not of age. Then no one can take it away from me.”
“You mean your Uncle Abner?” questioned Teddy.
“Yes. I don’t know that he would want to; but I’m not taking any chances. Now, why not send your money along at the same time? Mrs. Cahill will deposit it in the same way, and at the end of the season think what a lot of money you will have?”
“Regular fortune?”
“Yes, a regular fortune.”
“What’ll I do with all that money?”
“Do what I’m going to do—get an education.”
“What, and leave the show business? No, siree!”
“I didn’t mean that. You can go to school between seasons. I don’t intend to leave the show business, but I’m going to know something besides that.”
“Well, I guess it would be a good idea,” reflected Teddy.
“Will you do it?”
“Yes; I’ll do it,” he nodded.
“Good for you! We’ll own a show of our own, one of these days. You mark me, Teddy,” glowed Phil.
“Of our own?” marveled Teddy, his face wreathing in smiles. “Say, wouldn’t that be great?”
“I think so. Have you been practicing on the rings since I left?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. You and I will begin tomorrow. We ought to be pretty expert on the flying rings in a few weeks, if I don’t get hurt again,” added the boy, a shadow flitting across his face.
“Then, you’d better begin by taking some bends,” suggested Mr. Miaco, who, approaching, had overheard Phil’s remark.
“Bends?” questioned Teddy
“What are they?” wondered Phil. “Oh, I know. I read about them in the papers. It’s an attack that fellows working in a tunnel get when they’re digging under a river. I don’t want anything like that.”
“No, no, no,” replied Mr. Miaco in a tone of disgust. “It’s no disease at all.”
“No?”
“What I mean by bends is exercises. You have seen the performers do it—bend forward until their hands touch the ground, legs stiff, then tipping as far backwards as possible. Those are bending exercises, and the best things to do. The performers limber up for their act that way. If you practice it slowly several times a day you will be surprised to see what it will do for you. I’d begin today were I in your place, Phil. You’ll find yourself a little stiff when you go on in your elephant act tonight—”
“I’m not going on tonight—not until tomorrow. Mr. Sparling doesn’t wish me to.”
“All right. All the better. Exercise! I wouldn’t begin on the rings today either. Just take your bends, get steady on your feet and start in in a regular, systematic way tomorrow,” advised the head clown.
“Thank you, Mr. Miaco; I shall do so. I am much obliged to you. You are very kind to us.”
“Because I like you, and because you boys don’t pretend to know more about the circus business than men who have spent their lives in it.”
“I hope I shall never be like that,” laughed Phil. “I know I shall always be willing to learn.”
“And there always is something to learn in the circus life. None of us knows it all. There are new things coming up every day,” added the clown.
Phil left the dressing tent to go around to the menagerie tent for a talk with Mr. Kennedy and Emperor. Entering the tent the lad gave his whistle signal, whereat Emperor trumpeted loudly.
The big elephant greeted his young friend with every evidence of joy and excitement. Phil, of course, had brought Emperor a bag of peanuts as well as several lumps of sugar, and it was with difficulty that the lad got away from him after finishing his chat with Mr. Kennedy.
Phil was making a round of calls that afternoon, so he decided that he would next visit Mr. Sparling, having seen him only a moment, and that while others were around.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Yes; what do you want?”
“To thank you for your kindness.”
“Didn’t I tell you never to thank me for anything?” thundered the showman.
“I beg your pardon, sir; I’ll take it all back,” twinkled Phil.
“Oh, you will, will you, young scapegrace? What did you come here for anyway? Not to palaver about how thankful you are that you got knocked out, stayed a week in bed and had your salary paid all the time. I’ll bet you didn’t come for that. Want a raise of salary already?”
“Hardly. If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll tell you, Mr. Sparling.”
“Go on. Say it quick.”
“I have been thinking about the fall I got, since I’ve been laid up.”
“Nothing else to think about, eh?”
“And the more I think about it, the more it bothers me.”
“Does, eh?” grunted Mr. Sparling, busying himself with his papers.
“Yes, sir. I don’t suppose it would be possible for me to get the broken wire now, would it? No doubt it was thrown away.”
The showman peered up at the boy suspiciously.
“What do you want of it?”
“I thought I should like to examine it.”
“Why?”
“To see what had been done to it.”
“Oh, you do, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you think happened to that wire? It broke, didn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess there is no doubt about it but somebody helped to break it.”
“Young man, you are too confoundedly smart. Mark my words, you’ll die young. Yes; I have the wire. Here it is. Look at it. You are right; something happened to it, and I’ve been tearing myself to pieces, ever since, to find out who it was. I’ve got all my amateur sleuths working on the case, this very minute, to find out who the scoundrel is who cut the wire. Have you any idea about it? But there’s no use in asking you. I—”
“I’ve got this,” answered Phil, tossing a small file on the table in front of Mr. Sparling.
“What, what, what? A file?”
“Yes, will you see if it fits the notch in the wire there?”
The showman did so, holding file and wire up to the light for a better examination of them.
“There can be no doubt of it,” answered the amazed showman, fixing wondering eyes on the young man. “Where did you get it?”
“Picked it up.”
“Where?”
“In the dressing tent.”
“Pooh! Then it doesn’t mean anything,” grunted Mr. Sparling.
“If you knew where I picked it up you might think differently.”
“Then where did you get it?”
“Found it in my own trunk.”
“In your trunk?”
Phil nodded.
“How did it get there?”
“I had left my trunk open after placing some things in it. When I went out to watch Teddy’s mule act I was in such a hurry that I forgot all about the trunk. When I came back, there it lay, near the end—”
“Somebody put it there!” exploded the showman.
“Yes.”
“But who? Find that out for me—let me know who the man is and you’ll hear an explosion in this outfit that will raise the big top right off the ground.”
“Leave it to me, Mr. Sparling, I’ll find him.”
The owner laughed harshly.
“How?”
“I think I know who the man is at this very minute,” was Phil Forrest’s startling announcement, uttered in a quiet, even tone.
Mr. Sparling leaped from his chair so suddenly that he overturned the table in front of him, sending his papers flying all over the place.