“Here he is, and I guess he’s hurt,” answered Teddy.
“Give him to me. I’ll get him outside where we can get some decent air into him. Is he much hurt?”
“I—I don’t know.”
The showman grabbed Phil, and as a helper lifted the bottom of the tent’s side wall, Mr. Sparling ran to his own small tent with the unconscious Phil.
“Fetch a pail of water.”
Teddy ran for the cook tent to get the water. He was amazed to find no cook tent there. Instead, there remained only the open plot of grass, trampled down, with a litter of papers and refuse scattered about.
By the time he had dashed back to the tent to inquire where he could find a pail, one of the showmen had brought some water and Mr. Sparling was bathing Phil’s face with it.
He had made a hasty examination of the unconscious boy’s wounds, which he did not believe were serious.
Phil soon came to, and by that time the show’s doctor had arrived, having been in attendance on the wounded animal trainer.
“No; he’ll be sore for a few days, but there’s nothing dangerous about those scratches, I should say. I’ll dress the wounds and he can go on about his business,” was the surgeon’s verdict.