Phil bounded toward the band.
"Play! Play!" he shouted. "They'll stampede if you don't.
Play, I tell you!"
The bandmaster waved his baton and the music of the band drowned out the mutterings of the storm for the moment.
Suddenly the roaring without grew louder. Ropes were creaking, center and quarter poles lifting themselves a few inches from the ground, dangerously.
"It's blowing end on," muttered Phil, running full speed down the concourse in his ring costume.
"Keep your seats!" he shouted. "There may be no danger. If the tent should go down you will be safer where you are. Keep your seats, everybody."
Phil dashed on, shouting his warning until he had gotten halfway around the tent. Mr. Prentice had taken up the lad's cry on the other side.
Then the blow fell.
The big top bent under the sweep of the gale until the center poles were leaning far over to the north. Had the wind not struck the tent on the end it must have gone down under the first blast. As it was, canvas, rope and pole were holding, but every stitch of canvas and every pole was trembling under its burden.
"Sit steady, everybody! We may be able to weather it."