"Huh! I wish I had him!" growled Mr. Sparling. "What do you want?"
"I should like to have a chance to earn a pass to the show this afternoon. Rodney Palmer said the boss canvasman might give me a chance to earn one."
"Earn one? Earn one?" Mr. Sparling's voice rose to a roar again. "What in the name of Old Dan Rice do you think you've been doing? Here you've kept a cage with a five-thousand-dollar lion from tipping over, to say nothing of the people who might have been killed had the brute got out, and you want to know how you can earn a pass to the show? What d'ye think of that?" and the owner appealed helplessly to an assistant who had run across the lot, having been attracted to the scene by the uproar.
The assistant grinned.
"He's too modest to live."
"Pity modesty isn't more prevalent in this show, then. How many do you want? Have a whole section if you say the word."
"How many are there in a section?" asked Phil.
" 'Bout a hundred seats."
Phil gasped.
"I--I guess two will be enough," he made answer.
"Here you are," snapped the owner, thrusting a card at the lad, on which had been scribbled some characters, puzzling to the uninitiated. "If you want anything else around this show you just ask for it, young man. Hey, there! Going to be all day getting that canvas up? Don't you know we've got a parade coming along in a few hours?"
Phil Forrest, more light of heart than in many days, turned away to acquaint his companion of his good fortune. Teddy Tucker was making his way cautiously back to the scene of the excitement of a few moments before.
"Did he get away?" Teddy questioned, ready to run at the drop of the hat should the danger prove to be still present.
"Who, the manager?"
"No, the lion."
"He's in the cage where he's been all the time. They haven't opened it yet, but I guess he's all right. Say, Teddy!"
"Say it."
"I've got a pass to the show for two people for both performances--this afternoon and tonight."
The interest that the announcement brought to Teddy's eyes died away almost as soon as it appeared.
"Going?"
"Am I going? I should say so. Want to go in with me on my pass, Teddy?"
The lad hitched his trousers, took a critical squint at the canvas that was slowly mounting the center pole to the accompaniment of creaking ropes, groaning tackle and confused shouting.
"They're getting the menagerie tent up. I'll bet it's going to be a dandy show," he vouchsafed. "How'd you get the tickets?"
"Manager gave them to me."
"What for?"
"I did a little work for him. Helped get the lion's cage straightened up. How about it--are you going in on my pass?"
"N-o-o," drawled Teddy. "Might get me into bad habits to go in on a pass. I'd rather sneak in under the tent when the boss isn't looking."
CHAPTER V
WHEN THE BANDS PLAYED
Phil started for the Widow Cahill's on the run after having procured his tickets. "Here's a ticket for the circus, Mrs. Cahill," he shouted, bursting into the room, with excited, flushed face.
"What's this you say--the circus? Land sakes, I haven't seen one since I was--well, since I was a girl. I don't know."
"You'll go, won't you?" urged Phil.
"Of course, I'll go," she made haste to reply, noting the disappointment in his face over her hesitation. "And thank you very much."
"Shall I come and get you, Mrs. Cahill, or can you get over to the circus grounds alone?"
"Don't worry about me, my boy. I'll take care of myself."
"Your seat will be right next to mine, and we can talk while we are watching the performers."
"Yes; you run along now. Here's a quarter for spending money. Never mind thanking me. Just take it and have a good time. Where's your friend?"
"Teddy?"
"Yes."
"Over on the lot."
"He going in with you, too?"
"Oh, no. Teddy is too proud to go in that way. He crawls in under the tent," laughed Phil, running down the steps and setting off for the circus grounds with all speed.
When he arrived there he saw at once that something was going on. The tents were all in place, the little white city erected with as much care and attention to detail as if the show expected to remain in Edmeston all summer. The lad could scarcely make himself believe that, only a few hours before, this very lot had been occupied by the birds alone. It was a marvel to him, even in after years, when he had become as thoroughly conversant with the details of a great show as any man in America.
Just now there was unusual activity about the grounds. Men in gaudy uniforms, clowns in full makeup, and women with long glistening trains, glittering with spangles from head to feet, were moving about, while men were decorating the horses with bright blankets and fancy headdress.
"What are they going to do?" asked Phil of a showman.
"Going to parade."
"Oh, yes, that's so; I had forgotten about that."
"Hello, boy--I've forgotten your name--"
"Forrest," explained Phil, turning. The speaker was Mr. Sparling's assistant, whom the lad had seen just after saving the lion cage from turning over.
"Can you blow a horn as well as you can stop a wagon?"
"Depends upon what kind of a horn. I think I can make as much noise on a fish horn as anyone else."
"That'll do as well as anything else. Want to go in the parade?"
"I'd love to!" The color leaped to the cheeks of Phil Forrest and a sparkle to his eyes. This was going beyond his fondest dreams.
The assistant motioned to a clown.
"Fix this boy up in some sort of a rig. I'm going to put him in the Kazoo Band. Bring him back here when he is ready. Be quick."
A long, yellow robe was thrown about the boy, a peaked cap thrust on his head, after which a handful of powder was slapped on his face and rubbed down with the flat of the clown's hand. The fine dust got into the lad's nostrils and throat, causing him to sneeze until the tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking his makeup like a freshet through a plowed field.
"Good," laughed the clown. "That's what your face needs. You'd make a good understudy for Chief Rain-In-The-Face. Now hustle along."
Phil picked up the long skirts and ran full speed to the place where the assistant had been standing. There he waited until the assistant returned from a journey to some other part of the lot.
"That's right; you know how to obey orders," he nodded. "That's a good clown makeup. Did Mr. Miaco put those streaks on your face?"
"No, I sneezed them there," answered Phil, with a sheepish grin.
The assistant laughed heartily. Somehow, he had taken a sudden liking to this boy.
"Do you live at home, Forrest?"
"No; I have no home now."
"Here's a fish horn. Now get up in the band wagon--no, not the big one, I mean the clowns' band wagon with the hayrack on it. When the parade starts blow your confounded head off if you want to. Make all the noise you can. You'll have plenty of company. When the parade breaks up, just take off your makeup and turn it over to Mr. Miaco."
"You mean these clothes?"
"Yes.