“Fix this boy up in some sort of a rig. I’m going to put him in the Kazoo Band. Bring him back here when he is ready. Be quick.”
A long, yellow robe was thrown about the boy, a peaked cap thrust on his head, after which a handful of powder was slapped on his face and rubbed down with the flat of the clown’s hand. The fine dust got into the lad’s nostrils and throat, causing him to sneeze until the tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking his makeup like a freshet through a plowed field.
“Good,” laughed the clown. “That’s what your face needs. You’d make a good understudy for Chief Rain-In-The-Face. Now hustle along.”
Phil picked up the long skirts and ran full speed to the place where the assistant had been standing. There he waited until the assistant returned from a journey to some other part of the lot.
“That’s right; you know how to obey orders,” he nodded. “That’s a good clown makeup. Did Mr. Miaco put those streaks on your face?”
“No, I sneezed them there,” answered Phil, with a sheepish grin.
The assistant laughed heartily. Somehow, he had taken a sudden liking to this boy.
“Do you live at home, Forrest?”
“No; I have no home now.”
“Here’s a fish horn. Now get up in the band wagon—no, not the big one, I mean the clowns’ band wagon with the hayrack on it. When the parade starts blow your confounded head off if you want to. Make all the noise you can. You’ll have plenty of company. When the parade breaks up, just take off your makeup and turn it over to Mr. Miaco.”