“I—I—”
“Well, don’t get a swelled head about it, for—”
“There is no danger of that, sir.”
“And you don’t have to potter around the cook tent working, either. That is, not unless you want to.”
“But, I do, Mr. Sparling. I want to learn everything there is to be learned about the show business,” protested Phil.
Mr. Sparling regarded him quizzically.
“You’ll do,” he said, turning away.
As soon as the dressing tent had been erected and the baggage was moved in, Phil hurried to the entrance of the women’s dressing tent and calling for Mrs. Waite, told her what was wanted.
She measured his figure with her eyes, and nodded understandingly.
“Think I’ve got something that will fit you. A young fellow who worked on the trapeze fell off and broke a leg. He was just about your size, and I guess his tights will be about right for you. Not superstitious, are you?”