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 thatthey 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.
