He felt himself going up again.
The sensation was something akin to that which Phil had once experienced when jumping off a haystack. He felt as if his whole body were being tickled by straws.
The elephants were rising on their hind legs, uttering shrill screams and mighty coughs, as if enraged over the humiliation that was being put upon them.
It seemed to Phil as if Emperor would never stop going up until the lad’s head was against the top of the tent. He ventured to look down.
What a distance it was! Phil hastily directed his glances upward.
At last the elephant had risen as high as he could go. He was standing almost straight up and down, and on his head the slender figure of the boy appeared almost unreal to those off on the seats.
Thunders of applause swept over the assemblage. People rose up in their seats, the younger ones hurling hats high in the air and uttering catcalls and shrill whistles, until pandemonium reigned under the “big top,” as the circus tent proper is called by the showmen.
“Swing your hat at them!”
The trainer had to shout to make himself heard, and as it was Phil caught the words as from afar off.
He took off his soft hat and waved it on high, gazing wonderingly off over the seats. He could distinguish nothing save a waving, undulating mass of moving life and color.