The last circus performance was given in Albany, and the winter quarters were to be at a town twenty miles distant. Kit went through his acts with his usual success, and when he took off his circus costume, it was with a feeling that it might be the last time he would wear it.
The breaking up was not to take place till the next day, and he was preparing to spend the night in some Albany hotel.
He had taken off his tights, as has been said, and put on his street dress, when a tall man, with a frank, good humored expression, stepped up to him.
"Are you Christopher Watson?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Kit, in surprise, for he had no recollection of having met the stranger before.
"Of course you don't know me, but I was a school-fellow and intimate friend of your father."
"Then," said Kit, cordially, "I must take you by the hand. All my father's friends are my friends."
The face of the stranger lighted up.
"That's the way to talk," he said. "I see you are like your father. Shake hands again."
"But how did you know I was with Barlow's circus?" asked Kit, puzzled.