He chuckled as Sully uttered a grunt of anger and strode off to the other end of the car.
"He'll be going to the lot after a while, then I'll get busy," muttered Phil. In the meantime there was nothing for him to do but to sit down and make the best of his situation, which he did. Once, during the morning, Phil, believing himself to be alone, made several desperate attempts to break the door down.
His efforts brought a threat from the corridor as to what would happen if he tried that again. Phil knew, then, that he was not to be left alone.
After a while the lad went to sleep, not awakening until late in the afternoon.
He got no supper that night, nor did the showman come near him until late on the following morning. Phil was ravenously hungry, not having had a thing to eat in twenty-four hours, but he had too much grit to utter a word of complaint.
An excellent breakfast was served, but instead of Mr. Sully one of his men sat at the table while another stood out in the corridor ready to take a hand in case the boy made an effort to escape.
Had there been an open window near him Phil would have tried a dive through it, taking the chance of getting away. The windows in the room where the breakfast was served had been prudently shut, however.
He had just finished his breakfast when Sully came storming in.
The lad could see that he was very angry about something.
"Good morning, sir. Aren't you feeling well this morning?" questioned Phil innocently.
"Feeling—feeling—" The words seemed to choke in the showman's throat.