"All right," Ed Mason agreed; "or, say, you're goin' over to stand on the bank steps at ten o'clock to see the parade, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, we'll see Horace there, sure,—he always goes."
And it was so decided.
Before ten o'clock we all set out for Main Street,—Ed Mason, Rob Currier, Peter Bailey, and myself, together with an unavoidable convoy of small sisters and other relatives. The streets had that appearance which circus day and no other always brought. Toy balloon men and sellers of paper whirligigs wandered up and down, and strange looking persons, clutching children with one hand and paper bags of luncheon with the other, stood or sat on the grass bankings, edge-stones, and lawns, in front of the houses.
Through a sort of family privilege enjoyed by Peter Bailey, and always exercised on such occasions, we took up our position on the steps of the Merrimack Bank. Mr. Vincent, Horace's uncle, could be seen at his duties inside the bank, but he did not come out. Circus processions did not interest him.
Horace was unaccountably absent.
There were two or three false alarms, two or three mistaken announcements by members of the crowd: "Here they come!" Twice we thought we heard in the distance the faint blare of brass instruments, as well as a deeper sound which Ed Mason declared to be the roaring of lions.
But at last they did come. Majestically, and with clashing cymbals, they descended Main Street.
At the head was a gorgeous wagon carrying a brass band. The men were in red coats, and they blew their trombones and cornets and beat their drums with the utmost vigor. A cavalcade followed, and then came four or five large and gayly painted carts, containing, so the pictures and legends indicated, the blood-sweating behemoth, the laughing hyenas, two Nubian lions, and the man-eating tiger of Bengal. But the carts were all closed, and the blood-sweating behemoth, if he were there, gave no sign. Nor did the other animals. We had to be contented with their painted likenesses on the sides of the carts.