Brede led the way, and the tired stragglers started out once more in his wake. At the very next turn in the road they discovered the town of New Hornbury, and to their ears came faintly the inspiring strains of music from the band. They hurried on, to find that the circus-tents were set up in the southerly suburbs of the town. It was nearly four o’clock when they reached the ground, and some one told them that the show had been in progress for more than an hour.
Brede and Fryant held a hasty conference with one of the managers, who chanced to be in the ticket-seller’s wagon, and explained the situation to him in a few words.
“How much money has your crowd got?” he asked. Brede told him. “Well, give us three dollars,” he said.
Then, as the money was paid to him, stepping down from the wagon, he continued: “Never mind the tickets; come along with me.”
He led the party through the entrance of the main tent, and piloted them to seats in the high back-rows on the farther side of the arena.
There was still a good hour left of the performance, and those of the boys who were not too tired to enjoy anything seemed to derive some pleasure from the exhibition. But poor little Patchy, overcome by heat and fatigue, fell asleep in Brightly’s arms long before the last gorgeous procession had made its final exit.
When the party came out of the menagerie tent, some time after the close of the performance, it was nearly six o’clock. Struggling away from the outpouring mass of people, they gathered at one side of the circus ground for consultation.
What was to be done now? They were all very tired and very hungry. In an hour darkness would set in, and they were ten miles from home. They had left of their common fund only a dollar and thirty-three cents,—not enough to hire conveyances to take them to Riverpark; not enough to pay their passage by either boat or cars; not enough to pay for beds to sleep on here; not even enough to buy for their supper so poor a meal as they had eaten at mid-day. The situation was a serious one. There was no jesting now. Every tired face was sober and anxious in its aspect.
Brede was sullen, and answered questions in petulant monosyllables, or refused to answer at all. Brightly saw the impossibility of getting these foot-sore lads back to Riverpark through the darkness of night, and could suggest nothing better than that they should remain where they were until morning. The prospect was indeed disheartening.
Then one of the boys spoke up who had, hitherto, said very little. His name was Glück, and he was of German descent. His home was in the city of Newburg, about six miles farther down, on the other side of the Hudson.