the show this afternoon," said Phil.
"All right, if I see you I'll swing my hand to you," Rodney replied, starting for the cook tent, where the meals were served to the show people.
"Now, I'm going to see that boss canvasman," announced Phil. "See, they are laying the pieces of the tents flat on the ground. I suppose they fasten them all together when they get them placed, then raise them up on the poles."
"I guess so. I don't care much so long as I don't have to do it."
"Teddy Tucker, actually you are the laziest boy I ever knew. Why don't you brace up?"
"Don't I have just as good a time and better, than you do?"
"Guess you do."
"Don't I get just as much to eat?"
"I presume so," admitted Phil.
"Don't I see all the shows that come to town, and go to all the picnics?"
"Yes."
"Then, what's the use of being any more'n lazy?"
Teddy's logic was too much for his companion, and Phil laughed heartily.
"Look, the elephant is butting one of the wagons," cried Teddy.
"No, they are using the elephant to push the cage around in place. I wonder what's in it," said Phil.
A roar that fairly made the ground shake answered Phil's question. The cage in question held a lion, and a big, ugly one if his voice was any indication. The great elephant, when the cage was being placed, would, at a signal from its keeper, place its ponderous head against one side of the cage and push, while a driver would steer the wagon by taking hold of the end of the tongue.
It was a novel sight for the two boys, and they watched it with the keenest interest. A man dressed in riding clothes, carrying a short crop in his hand, was observing the operations with equal interest. He was James Sparling, the proprietor and manager of the Great Combined Shows, but the lads were unaware of that fact. Even had they known, it is doubtful if Mr. Sparling would have been of sufficient attraction to draw their attention from the working elephant.
All at once there was a warning shout from Mr. Sparling.
The men set up a yell, followed by a sudden scurrying from the immediate vicinity of the cage that the elephant had been shunting about.
"Stop it! Brace it!" bellowed the owner of the show, making frantic motions with his free hand, cutting circles and dashes in the air with the short crop held in the other.
"What's the row?" wondered Teddy.
"I--I don't know," stammered Phil.
"The elephant's tipping the lion cage over!" shouted someone. "Run for your lives!"
For once in his life Teddy Tucker executed a lightning-like movement. He was one of several dark streaks on the landscape running as if Wallace, the biggest lion in captivity, were in reality hard upon his heels. As he ran, Teddy uttered a howl that could have been heard from one end of the circus lot to the other.
A few of the more fearless ones, the old hands of the show, did not attempt to run. Instead they stood still, fairly holding their breaths, waiting to see what would happen next.
Mr. Sparling was too far away to be able to do anything to prevent the catastrophe that was hanging over them, but it did not prevent him from yelling like a madman at the inactive employees of the show.
At the first cry--the instant he comprehended what was happening-- Phil Forrest moved every bit as quickly as had his companion, though he leaped in the opposite direction.
All about on the ground lay tent poles of various length and thickness, side poles, quarter poles and the short side poles used to hold the tent walls in place. These were about twenty feet in length and light enough to be easily handled.
With ready resourcefulness and quick comprehension, Phil pounced upon one of these and darted toward the cage which was toppling over in his direction.
The roof of the lion cage that housed Wallace projected over the edge some six inches, and this had caught the keen eyes of the lad at the first alarm. His plan had been formed in a flash.
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 assistance. 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,
