The race horses were hurried out of the tent, so that if the people made a rush the animals would not get frightened and break loose among them.
Suddenly there came a terrific gust of wind. Some of the smaller tent poles began swaying dangerously, for there was a terrible strain on them.
“The tent’s falling down!” cried a foolish man. “Run, everybody!”
Scores of women screamed, and one or two fainted. Then that seemed to become epidemic, and more women fell backward, pale and trembling.
“It’s all right! It’s all right!” cried Mr. Paine, trying to quiet the hysterical ones. “There’s no danger! The tent will not fall!”
But his words had no effect. Louder sounded the thunder, and faster fell the rain. The tent seemed swaying more and more, and one of the smaller and unimportant poles snapping in two caused a panic-stricken rush of people from its vicinity.
“They’re rushing right against the side of the tent!” cried Sam. “There’s no way to get out there, as it’s against a high bank! There’ll be a lot of women trampled under foot!”
“Why doesn’t the band play and quiet the rush?” asked Jack, who had read of such things being done in theatres when there was a fire panic.
“That’s the stuff!” cried Sam. “Good idea! Come on, we’ll get over to the band-stand and tell the leader to strike up a tune. Come on!”
He grasped Jack by the arm and half led, half dragged him through the press of people, who, every second, were becoming more and more unmanageable.