The boy’s pale face appeared even more ashen than it really was under the flickering glare of the gasoline torches. His head had been propped up on a saddle, while about him stood a half circle of solemn-faced performers in various stages of undress and makeup.
“Is he badly hurt?” asked one.
“Can’t say. Miaco has gone for the doc. We’ll know pretty soon. That was a dandy tumble he took.”
“How did it happen?”
“Wire broke. You can’t put no faith on a wire with a kink in it. I nearly got my light put out, out in St. Joe, Missouri, by a trick like that. No more swinging wire for me. Guess the kid, if he pulls out of this, will want to hang on to a rope after this. He will if he’s wise.”
“What’s this? What’s this?” roared Mr. Sparling, who, having heard of the accident, came rushing into the tent. “Who’s hurt?”
“The kid,” informed someone.
“What kid? Can’t you fellows talk? Oh, it’s Forrest, is it? How did it happen?”
One of the performers who had witnessed the accident related what he had observed.
“Huh!” grunted the showman, stepping up beside Phil and placing a hand on the boy’s heart.