"I am trying to do so," howled Teddy in a jeering voice.
"Can't go any faster than I am."
"Stop him! You'll run somebody down!" shouted Mr. Sparling, dodging out of the way as the mule, with ears laid back on his head, dashed straight at the showman.
"Can't stop. In a hurry," answered Teddy.
On they plunged past the bandstand again, the mule pausing at the paddock entrance long enough to kick the silk curtains into ribbons. Next he made a dive for the dressing tent.
In less time than it takes to tell it, the dressing tent looked as if it had been struck by a cyclone.
Clubs and side poles were brought down on the rump of the wild mule, most of which were promptly kicked through the side of the tent. Teddy, in the meantime, had landed in a performer's trunk, smashing through the tray, being wedged in so tightly that he could not extricate himself. Added to the din was Teddy's voice howling for help.
The performers, in all stages of dress and undress, had fled to the outside.
Then, the mule becoming suddenly meek, pricked forward his ears, ambled out into the paddock and began contentedly nibbling at the fresh grass about the edges of the enclosure.
About this time Mr. Sparling came running in. His face was red and the perspiration was rolling down it.
"Where's that fool boy?" he bellowed. "Where is he, I say?"