The force of his fall had been broken somewhat by his quickly throwing out his hands in front of him and relaxing the muscles of his body. Circus performers soon learn how to fall—how to make the best of every situation with which they are confronted. Despite this, his fall had been a severe and dangerous one.
"There, he has done it! I knew he would," cried Mr. Sparling, rushing to the ring. Quick as he was, Dimples was ahead of him. She leaped the ring curbing and dropped down beside him, not caring for the dust and the dirt that soiled her pretty costume.
"Phil! Phil!" she cried.
Phil did not answer at the moment.
"Is he hurt—is he killed?" demanded Mr. Sparling excitedly.
"Of course he is hurt. Can't you see he is?" answered
Dimples testily.
She turned the boy over and looked into his face. The dirt was so ground into the handsome, boyish face as to make it scarcely recognizable.
"Lift him up. Get some of the attendants to carry him back!" commanded the woman impatiently.
"No, no!" protested Phil in a muffled voice, for his mouth was full of sawdust and dirt. "I'm all right. Don't worry about me."
"He's all right," repeated the showman. "I'll help you up, Phil."