After helping themselves they felt much better. Phil, after a time, walked to the entrance of the cook tent and looked out. The same bustle and excitement as on the previous two days was noticeable everywhere, and the men worked as if utterly oblivious of the fact that the rain was falling in torrents.
“Do we parade today?” called Phil, observing Mr. Sparling hurrying past wrapped in oilskins and slouch hat.
“This show gives a parade and two performances a day, rain, shine, snow or earthquake,” was the emphatic answer. “Come over to my tent in half an hour. I have something to say to you.”
Phil ran across to Mr. Sparling’s tent at the expiration of half an hour, but he was ahead of time evidently, for the showman was not there. Nice dry straw had been piled on the ground in the little tent to take up the moisture, giving it a cosy, comfortable look inside.
“This wouldn’t be a half bad place to sleep,” decided Phil, looking about him. “I don’t suppose we ever play the same town two nights in succession. I must find out.”
Mr. Sparling bustled in at this point, stripping off his wet oilskins and hanging them on a hook on the tent pole at the further end.
“Where’d you sleep?”
“In wagon No. 10.”
“Get wet?”
“Very.”