THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE PLAINS
CHAPTER I
ON THE OWNER'S PRIVATE CAR
"Bates!"
The voice of James Sparling rose above even the roar of
the storm.
A uniformed attendant stepped into the little office tent
occupied by the owner of the Great Sparling Combined Shows.
Shaking the water from his dripping cap, he brought a hand
to his forehead in precise military salute.
"How's the storm coming, Bates?" demanded the showman, with an
amused twinkle in his eyes as he noted the bedraggled condition
of his messenger.
"She's coming wet, sir," was the comprehensive reply.
And indeed "she" was. The gale was roaring over the circus lot,
momentarily threatening to wrench the billowing circus tents from
their fastenings, lift them high in the air preparatory to
distributing them over the surrounding country. Guy ropes were
straining at their anchorages, center and quarter poles were
beating a nervous tattoo on the sodden turf. The rain was
driving over the circus lot in blinding sheets.
The night was not ideal for a circus performance. However, the
showmen uttered no protest, going about their business as
methodically as if the air were warm and balmy, the moon and
stars shining down over the scene complacently.
Now and again, as the wind shifted for a moment toward the
showman's swaying office tent, the blare of the band off under
the big top told him the show was moving merrily on.
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