“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.
