THE BARNYARD CIRCUS
When next Phil opened his eyes he was lying on the grass on the shady side of a freight car with someone dashing water in his face, while two or three others stood around gazing at him curiously.
"Whe—where am I?" gasped the boy.
"I reckon you're lucky to be alive," laughed the man who had been soaking him from a pail of water. "Who be ye?"
"My name is Phil Forrest."
"How'd ye git in that car? Stealing a ride, eh? Reckon we'd better hand ye over to the town constable. It's again the law to steal rides on freight trains."
"I've not stolen a ride. It's no such thing," protested
Phil indignantly.
"Ho, ho, that's a rich one! Paid yer fare, hey? Riding like a gentleman in a side-door Pullman. Good, ain't it, fellows?"
"Friends, I assure you I am not a tramp. Someone assaulted me and locked me in that car last night. I've got money in my pocket to prove that I am not a tramp."
The lad thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets, then a blank expression overspread his face. Reaching to his vest to see if his watch were there, he found that that, too, was missing.