With wild yells some fifty of the group from which the drunken rowdy had come sprang from the benches. They jumped over the ropes, crowding into the ring and making for the manager.
Half-a-dozen ring men ran forward to repel them. Fists brandished, and cudgels, too. The circus men went down among flying heels.
Then arose a cry, heard for the first time by the excited Andy—never later recalled without a thrill as he realized from that experience its terrific portent.
"Hey, Rube!"
It was the world-wide rallying cry of the circus folk—the call in distress for speedy, reliant help.
As if by magic the echoes took up the call. Andy heard them respond from the farthest haunts of the circus grounds.
From under the benches, through the main entrance, under the loose side flaps, a rallying army sprang into being.
Stake men, wagon men, cooks, hostlers, candy butchers, came flying from every direction.
Every one of them had found a weapon—a stake. Like skilled soldiers they grouped, and bore down on the intruders like an avalanche.
Women were shrieking, fainting on the benches, children were crying. The audience was in a wild turmoil. Some benches broke down. The scene was one of riotous confusion.