“It’s Emperor coming back!” cried someone. “There’s somebody on him,” added another.
“I’ll bet the day’s receipts that it’s that rascally Phil Forrest,” exclaimed Mr. Sparling, examining the cloud of dust with shaded eyes. “How in the world did it ever happen? I’ve been hunting all over the outfit for that boy this morning. Young Tucker said he thought Phil had remained behind, and I was afraid something had happened to the boy or that he had skipped the show. I might have known better. What’s that back of him?”
“Somebody chasing them, boss,” a tentman informed him.
“And they’re going to catch old Emperor sure.”
“Not if I know it,” snapped Mr. Sparling. “Hey, Rube!” he howled.
Canvasmen, roustabouts, performers and everybody within reach of his voice swarmed out into the open, armed with clubs, stones and anything they could lay their hands upon.
“There’s a posse trying to catch Phil Forrest and old Emperor. Get a going! Head them off and drive them back!”
Every man started on a run, some leaping on horses, clearing the circus lot, riding like so many cowboys. As they approached the lad perched on the bobbing head of the elephant the showmen set up a chorus of wild yells, to which Phil responded by waving his hat. He tried to stand up on Emperor’s head, narrowly missing a tumble, which he surely would have taken had not the elephant given him quick support with the ever-handy trunk.
“They’re shooting at me,” cried Phil, as he swept by the showmen.
“Line up!” commanded Mr. Sparling.