Phil stood quietly waiting, noting amusedly the stern scowl that appeared to be part of Mr. Sparling’s natural expression.
“Well, what do you want?” he demanded, with disconcerting suddenness.
“I—I was told that you had sent for me, that you wanted to see me,” began the lad, with a show of diffidence.
“So I did, so I did.”
The showman hitched his camp chair about so he could get a better look at his visitor. He studied Phil from head to foot with his usual scowl.
“Sit down!”
“On the ground, sir?”
“Ground? No, of course not. Where’s that chair? Oh, my lazy tent man didn’t open it. I’ll fire him the first place we get to where he won’t be likely to starve to death. I hear you’ve been trying to put my show out of business.”
“I wasn’t aware of it, sir,” replied Phil, looking squarely at his questioner. “Perhaps I was not wholly blameless in attaching myself to Emperor.”
“Huh!” grunted Mr. Sparling, but whether or not it was a grunt of disapproval, Phil could not determine.