The first tents of the carnival began to rise one Saturday morning; and all that day and the next, the boys of the town and the grown-ups, too, watched the show take shape. It was almost as good as a circus. At noon on Monday, the carnival opened for business, with the ballyhoo men in full voice before every tent. The moderate afternoon crowd grew into a throng in the evening, when the kerosene torches flared and smoked on every pole, and the normal things of daylight took on a dusky glamour in the jerky illumination of the flares.
Every one went uptown to the carnival that first evening. Wint was there, and Jack Routt, Agnes, Joan, V. R. Kite—every one. In mid-evening, the quieter folk drifted home, but Wint stayed to watch what passed. A little after eleven, he bumped into a drunken man.
In spite of his warning to the advance agent of this carnival, Wint had been expecting to see drunken men. It was the nature of the carnival breed. He wandered back and forth till he came upon Jim Radabaugh, and called the marshal aside.
“Jim,” he said, “they’re selling booze.”
Radabaugh shifted that lump in his cheek, and spat. “So?” he asked mildly.
“I want it stopped,” said Wint. “If you pin it on the carnival bunch, I’ll shut them up.”
“I’ll see,” Radabaugh promised.
“Come along, first, and let’s talk to the boss,” Wint suggested; and they sought out that man. He was running the merry-go-round; a hard little fellow with a cold blue eye. Wint introduced himself; and the man shook hands effusively.
“My name’s Rand,” he said. “Mike Rand. Glad t’ meet you, Mister Mayor.”
Wint said: “That’s all right,” and he asked: “Did your advance man give you my orders?”