“Huh!”
“He’s alive, isn’t he, Mr. Sparling?”
“Yes. Anybody gone for the doctor?”
“Miaco has.”
“Wonder any of you had sense enough to think of that. I congratulate you. Somebody will suffer when I find out who was responsible for hanging that boy’s life on a rotten old piece of wire. I presume it’s been kicking around this outfit for the last seven years.”
“Here comes the doc,” announced a voice.
There was a tense silence in the dressing tent, broken only by the patter of the rain drops on the canvas roof, while the show’s surgeon was making his examination.
“Well, well! What about it?” demanded Mr. Sparling impatiently.
The surgeon did not answer at once. His calm, professional demeanor was not to be disturbed by the blustering but kind- hearted showman, and the showman, knowing this from past experience, relapsed into silence until such time as the surgeon should conclude to answer him.
“Did he fall on his head?” he questioned, looking up, at the same time running his fingers over Phil’s dark-brown hair.