The Circus Boys on the Flying Rings Part 8

He shot one end of the side pole up under the projecting roof, jammed the other end into the ground, throwing his whole weight upon the foot of the pole to hold it in place.

For an instant the tent pole bent like a bow under the pull of the archer. It seemed as if it must surely snap under the terrific strain.

Phil saw this, too. Now that the foot of the pole was firmly imbedded in the ground, there was no further need for him to hold it down. He sprang under the pole with the swaying cage directly over him, grabbed the pole at the point where it was arching so dangerously, and pulling himself from the ground, held to the slippery stick desperately.

Light as he was the boy's weight saved the pole. It bent no further.

The cage swayed from side to side, threatening to topple over at one end or the other.

"Get poles under the ends," shouted the boy in a shrill voice. "I can't hold it here all day."

"Get poles, you lazy good-for-nothings!" bellowed the owner.

"Brace those ends. Look out for the elephant. Don't you see he's headed for the cage again?"

Orders flew thick and fast, but through it all Phil Forrest hung grimly to the side pole, taking a fresh overhand hold, now and then, as his palms slipped down the painted stick.

Now that he had shown the way, others sprang to his a.s.sistance.

Half a dozen poles were thrust up under the roof and the cage began slowly settling back the other way.

"Hadn't you better have some poles braced against the other side, sir?" suggested Phil, touching his hat to Mr. Sparling, who, he had discovered, was some person in authority. "The cage may tip clear over on the other side, or it may drop so heavily on the wheels as to break the axles."

"Right. Brace the off side. That's right. Now let it down slowly. Not so hard on the nigh side there. Ease off there, Bill. Push, Patsy. What do you think this is--a game of croquet?

There you go. Right. Now let's see if you woodenheads know enough to keep the wagon right side up."

Mr. Sparling took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, while Phil stood off calmly surveying the men who were straightening the wagon, but with more caution than they had exercised before.

"Come here, boy."

Someone touched Phil on the arm.

"What is it?"

"Boss wants to speak to you."

"Who?"

"Boss Sparling, the fellow over there with the big voice and the sombrero."

Phil walked over and touched his hat to Mr. Sparling.

The showman looked the lad over from head to foot.

"What's your name?" He shot the question at the lad as if angry about something, and he undoubtedly was.

"Phil Forrest."

"Do they grow your kind around here?"

"I can't say, sir."

"If they do, I'd like to hire a dozen or more of them. You've got more sense than any boy of your age I ever saw. How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Huh! I wish I had him!" growled Mr. Sparling. "What do you want?"

"I should like to have a chance to earn a pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s to the show? What d'ye think of that?" and the owner appealed helplessly to an a.s.sistant who had run across the lot, having been attracted to the scene by the uproar.

The a.s.sistant 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s, Teddy?"