"It is a pleasure to meet a man
like you. I come from a country town myself, and have worked
some on my uncle's farm."
"You with the circus, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Looks to me like you was a pretty young fellow to be a
circus man."
"Oh no, not very. I belong back with the show. I am a
performer, you know. I am out with the advertising car to learn
the business."
"A performer?" wondered the farmer, looking over the trim figure
and bright boyish face. "What do you perform?"
"I perform on the flying trapeze and do a bareback riding act."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know, young fellow, I never got such a close squint at a
circus fellow before in my life. But, come to size you up, I
reckon you can do all them things you've been telling me about.
Yes, sir, I'll go to the circus. Will you be there to cut up in
the ring?"
"I cannot say. It is doubtful, as I probably shall be ahead of
the show for the rest of the season. Well, thank you very much.
We will decorate the hog pen," added the lad, touching his cap
and turning away.
An arena box, value twelve dollars, was a pretty high price to
pay for a three-sheet on a hog pen, but Phil Forrest knew what he
was doing. At least he thought he did, and he did not walk very
fast on his way to the road.
"Hey, come back here," called the farmer.
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