Breakfast in the circus tent was not ready till nine o'clock, for circus men of every description get up late, except the razorbacks, who are compelled to be about very early to unload the freight cars, and the canvas men, who put up the tents. So Kit went to the hotel, and registering his name called for breakfast.
After he had eaten it, he strolled into the office, hoping to meet some one of whom he could make inquiries respecting his uncle. This was made unexpectedly easy. A man of about his uncle's age had been examining the list of arrivals. He looked at Kit inquisitively.
"I beg your pardon, young man," he said, "but are you Christopher Watson?"
"Yes, sir," answered Kit, politely.
"Did you ever have any relatives living in this place?"
"Yes, sir. My uncle, Stephen Watson, used to live here."
"I thought so. I once saw your father. He came here to visit your uncle. You look like him."
Kit was gratified, for he cherished a warm affection for his dead father, and was glad to have it said that he resembled him.
"Are you going to stay here long?" asked the villager.
"No, sir; I am here only for the day."