As it happened the lad reached the show grounds before his message had been delivered. Mr. Sparling, well nigh beside himself with worry, had telegraphed to all points passed by their boats, begging that neither effort nor expense be spared to find his Circus Boy.
The showman was standing in front of his office tent, that afternoon, at about three o'clock, his broad-brimmed slouch hat pulled well down over his eyes, his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets.
Off under the big top the band was playing a lively tune, and the side-show people were out in front sunning themselves, all discussing Phil Forrest's mysterious disappearance.
After a short time, Mr. Sparling espied a young man in uniform coming on the lot. He did not pay much attention to the stranger, thinking the fellow was a police officer or something of the sort.
As the young man drew nearer, however, the showman thought he noted something familiar in the springy step and the poise of the body.
"Now, who is that?" he muttered. "Somehow I seem to know that youngster."
Others about the main entrance were also looking in his direction about that time. Still no one seemed to recognize the young man.
All at once the showman tilted up the rim of his hat and gazed more keenly.
"Phil!" he shouted, casting the hat aside and running forward with outstretched arms. "It's Phil, it's Phil Forrest!"
A moment more and Mr. James Sparling had clasped his little Circus Boy about the waist, hugging him delightedly. There was a suspicious moisture in the eyes of the showman, which he sought to hide from Phil.