Phil, like the plucky performer that he was, declined their offers of assistance and struggled to his feet. He was dizzy and staggered a little, but after a moment succeeded in overmastering his inclination to faint.
A fleck of blood on his lips showed through makeup and sawdust.
"I'm all right. Don't worry about me," he said, with a forced smile.
Dimples sought to brush the dirt from his face with her handkerchief, but he put her aside gently, and, with a low bow, threw a kiss to the audience.
Their relief was expressed in a roar of applause.
Phil staggered over to where the ring horse still lay near the center of the ring and knelt down beside it, examining the leg that was doubled up under the animal.
The ringmaster cracked his whip lash as a signal for the animal to get up, but the faithful old horse, despite its efforts to rise, was unable to do so.
"What is the matter with him?" demanded Mr. Sparling.
"Jim has broken a leg, I think," answered Phil sadly. "Too bad, too bad!"
The lad patted the head of the horse and ran his fingers through the grey mane. Tears stood in Phil Forrest's eyes, for he had ridden this horse and won most of his triumphs on its resined back during the past three years.