victor collins had not yet arrived at an age when a circus loses its power to thrill the heart with joy. each gilded chariot, each gaudy menagerie wagon or gorgeous trapping still awoke within his breast a responsive chord.
“they’re driving in stakes, brandon,” he exclaimed. “see—there’s a wagon—a four-horser, and lots of others back. we’re just in time to watch ’em put up the tent.”
over on the lot an odor of rank weeds and grasses filled the air. it was all very black and forbidding, unpleasantly suggestive of treacherous pitfalls or deep, stagnant pools of water, save where the rays of flaring light streamed through the gloom.
heavy wagons drawn by four horses rumbled their way across the bumpy, uneven field, occasionally becoming stuck in the yielding[46] turf, whereupon the yells of drivers and cracking of whips came sharply to their ears.
“working like the dickens, aren’t they?” remarked victor. “let’s skip around a bit.”
the two, steering a course around various obstructions, made their way toward the busy scene. soon they caught a glimpse of a faint grayish mass of canvas spread out over the ground, while towering aloft like the masts of a ship were a number of poles.
“that’s the big top, or main tent,” said dave.
“heads up there—look out!”
above the sound of the jolting and creaking of a big red wagon and crisp jingle of harness came the deep-throated warning. the leaders of a four-horse team swerved sharply around.
“over here, you for the flying squadron,” some one hailed from the distance.
“flying squadron! what in thunder is that?” cried victor, wonderingly.
“the commissary department,” answered dave. “in all well-regulated shows that is attended to first. guess this wagon is full of stuff they’ll need in a hurry for the mess tent.”
[47]a straggling procession, mainly of boys, soon began to arrive; the lonely, dismal lot was fast becoming transformed into a scene of great bustle and activity. more torches were flaring, and the echoing thuds of the sledges increased in force and number. a bright glare from a calcium light soon streamed over the field.
a force of workers with pick and shovel were leveling the ground, while still others spread thick layers of straw over tracts where recent rains had formed puddles of considerable size.
presently a murmuring chorus from the crowds of excited children burst into a loud hubbub of joyous shouts.
“oh, look!” laughed victor, attracted by the commotion.
some distance ahead, amid the wagons, a huge form was looming up, now dim and scarcely seen in the gloom, then brought sharply into relief by the flaring lights.
“hurray, here’s the elephant, as i live,” shouted victor. “gee, brandon—what was that? didn’t you hear something?”
the boys were threading a dark, gloomy[48] passage between two great wagons, now horseless, their tarpaulin-covered tops seeming to tower to a great height above them. a strange sound, suggestive of a deep sigh, had cut into victor’s sentence, and when it came a second time the two looked about them with interest.
they saw several bales of hay, showing dimly against the field, another deserted wagon, and an indistinct figure.
“hello!” exclaimed victor.
as he spoke the form began to rise, and, to their utter astonishment, continued to rise until it stood high above the bales, and so high that both uttered an exclamation.
“great scott!” breathed victor. “why—why——”
“say, who are you?”
a shrill childish treble came from the towering figure, which immediately began to move around the barricade of bales toward them. the boys watched him with breathless interest.
“say, who are you?”
they craned their necks to look up at the face that gazed into theirs, but the obscurity was so great that neither could determine the[49] age, the character, or the appearance of the singularly tall being whose voice resembled that of a fourteen-year-old boy.
“i say—what’s the matter? who are you, anyway?”
the third inquiry came in petulant, piping tones.
“if we could find a step-ladder,” began victor, struggling unsuccessfully to repress his mirth, “it——”
“that’s always the way. i’m the most miserable chap in the whole world.”
victor lighted a match, and, shielding the fluttering flame in the hollow of his hand, deliberately directed the rays into the face of the giant. they saw a small, well-shaped and extremely boyish head crowned with dark brown hair.
“well, now, i hope you are satisfied.” the shrill treble held a note of resignation.
“goodness gracious! how old are you?” demanded victor.
“fifteen. and i’m the most miserable chap in the——”
“why—what’s the matter?” inquired dave.
[50]“you’d better ask me what isn’t the matter,” answered the young giant, with a long, deep sigh. “come on—sit down. i do so want to talk to somebody before peter whiffin gets here.”
“peter whiffin! who’s he?”
“general manager of ollie spudger’s great combined peerless circus and menagerie. he doesn’t allow me to talk to people. you see”—the giant, leading the way, paused until he had settled himself on a bale of hay, where, after a great deal of difficulty, he managed to dispose of his long legs in a comfortable fashion—“well, it’s this way,” he went on, dolefully: “peter whiffin doesn’t believe in giving anything for nothing. i belong to the show—see? people must pay to look at the giant; so i’m smuggled around in the dark. it’s awful. mustn’t talk to strangers; mustn’t do this, or that. an’ when anybody does see me outside the tents i’m followed an’ stared at, an’ made fun of. oh, but i’m so sick of it! an’, do you know——”
the young giant’s wailing notes ceased, and he peered eagerly around.
“well?” questioned dave.
[51]“i’m still growing.”
“goodness gracious!”
“yes; it’s a fact—an’ most seven feet now.” the giant seemed almost on the verge of blubbering. then, with an effort, he controlled his voice. “but say, who are you?”
“one member of the rambler club, and one near-member,” grinned victor.
“there it goes again—always the same; every one has to guy me. oh, i’m the most miserable chap in the whole——”
“avast there, my hearty!” laughed dave. “i’ll explain.” and he did, while the giant listened with rapt attention.
“oh, if i could only do something like that, too,” he murmured, when dave had concluded. “what a dandy lot of fun you fellows are going to have. but it’s no use!”
“hey, georgy—oh, georgy! where in thunder are you?”
“there’s peter whiffin.” the giant raised his voice. “over here, mr. whiffin.”
the circus manager, scarcely seen in the gloom, and coming from the direction of the lights, increased his pace, scrambling around obstructions, and giving vent to his displeasure[52] at the weeds and inequality of the ground by emphatic exclamations.
“well, what’s all this?”
peter whiffin had a querulous voice and a manner which went singularly well with it. he was a small man, and victor’s method of throwing light on the subject by means of a match immediately disclosed sharp features, a pair of shifting gray eyes, a face lined with hollows and wrinkles, and a yellow moustache which drooped despondently at the corners.
“well, blow me—if you ain’t ’bout the coolest i ever see!” exclaimed peter whiffin, when the fluttering flame had vanished. “you’ve got your nerve with you, hey?”
“always carry plenty of it in stock,” said victor, calmly.
“see here, georgy, didn’t i tell you not to gab with every stranger that comes along?”
“i have to talk to some one, mr. whiffin; i’m so miserable.”
“well, well! says he is miserable! did you ever hear the like o’ it!” the manager’s tones bespoke the deepest disgust. “why, ain’t he makin’ more money in a week than most people in a month? well, well!”
[53]mr. peter whiffin’s emotions seemed to rise to such a point as to almost choke his utterances. he strode to and fro for a moment, then exclaimed:
“i’ve a good mind to fetch you one right in the ribs. it’s ingratitood—it’s worse. an’ his pap a-gittin’ paid every week as reg’lar as the clock ticks! i’ll plunk you for that, i will.”
“but i don’t want to get plunked,” wailed the giant, with a catch in his voice.
“well, then, don’t git off no more sich nonsense. miserable, indeed! that ’ud be somethink for your pap to hear ’bout, eh? ain’t there no thanks in that nature o’ yourn?”
“what have i to be thankful for, mr. whiffin? if i was only like these boys here i’d give anything in the world.”
peter whiffin snorted with indignation. he did more. seizing the giant roughly by the arm, he commanded him to move, and move fast, under penalty of receiving an assorted number of hooks, straight lefts, and right uppercuts, and accompanied his remarks with an exhibition of these same blows, all[54] coming perilously near the person of the complaining giant.
“if this here chatter ain’t a bit more’n the limit,” he growled. “an’ me not knowin’ what i’m a-goin’ to do for a barker to-morrow!”
“what’s the matter with jack gray?” asked george, forgetting his troubles for an instant.
“he’s went an’ took sich a cold that his voice sounds like a frog croakin’; that’s what’s the matter. if i ain’t in a mess for a spieler my name ain’t whiffin. i can’t do it meself; an’ there ain’t nobody worth shucks in the hull shootin’ match.”
the voice of the unhappy manager gradually grew faint in the distance, then, presently, became lost altogether amidst the medley of noises that arose on all sides.
“say, brandon, think of that poor little giant standing for all of peter whiffin’s fresh talk,” said victor, disgustedly. “why, if he’d just start falling——”
“and if peter got caught beneath him it would make a mighty sad story,” grinned dave.
[55]the two walked out beyond the grim shadows of the wagons, directing their course toward the light and activity beyond. already the canvas of the “big top” was looming high in the air, a dim, shapeless patch of ghostly white. the rumble of vehicles had given place to the clink and rattle of harness, as teams were unhitched and driven across the lots.
a crowd of shouting children surrounded three elephants, while others flocked around closed cages, uttering comments which revealed their curiosity regarding the strange and savage inmates. boys carrying buckets of water passed and repassed, straining their little arms to an alarming extent, but feeling sure that they were having the time of their lives.
dave and his companion soon found themselves in the thick of the fray watching a pair of sturdy horses hitched to the end of a long rope which led to a block and tackle.
crack! the driver’s whip echoed sharply. away they went. the center of the big top was drawn slowly up to its highest point on the middle pole, and, within a short time, the[56] limp canvas began to straighten and assume the form of a circus tent.
“jolly well done, that,” commented dave. “spudger’s great combined peerless circus and menagerie looks like a winner to me. and the mess tent is all up, too.”
they moved off toward it, each occasionally halted by piles of rubbish. twice victor put his foot into an unseen hole, then cracked his shin against a piece of board.
“makes a pleasant variety, doesn’t it?” said dave, as he heard his companion’s howl of disapproval.
“pleasant?” snapped victor. “it’s a wonder something hasn’t risen up off the ground and broken my legs. are we about to fall into the town ash-pit, or what?”
“we may escape such a fate as that.”
victor laughed.
“well, brandon,” he said, “if it hadn’t been for your encouragement to the paper industry my ankle wouldn’t be aching like the dickens.”
“or we shouldn’t have seen the circus, either,” returned dave, “which shows that some good has come from my poems, after all.”
[57]at the mess tent they found preparations for feeding the workers going on briskly. but their attention became speedily attracted toward several tents in which the horses were being stabled.
“makes me think of wyoming and old broncho days,” went on dave, softly. “guess i won’t do any more riding, though, for a mighty long time.”
“oh, fade away with such boasting,” said victor. “nothing could make me believe that you ever rode a broncho.”
“why, i——”
dave didn’t get far with his protest.
“fade!” roared victor. and the stout boy concluded to abide by the command.
it was not until half an hour later that the two turned away from the noise and chaotic confusion in which spudger’s great combined peerless circus and menagerie was still involved.
“i shouldn’t mind seeing the show,” remarked victor, “but at ten o’clock sharp to-morrow morning uncle ralph’s yacht pulls out.”
“and our motor car will leave about two[58] p. m.,” said dave. “so, unless something happens mighty soon, the adventures of the rambler club in this part of the country will add only a few dozen pages to my history.”
