Again his agile movement was far too slow. Six pairs of rough hands tried to seize him. Johnny’s right shot out. With a little gurgle, an attendant in uniform staggered backward to crumple in the sawdust. A ring-master, leaping like a panther, landed on Johnny’s back. Dropping abruptly, Johnny executed a somersault, shook himself free and rose only to butt his head into the stomach of a fat clown.
And then what promised to be a beautiful scrap ended miserably. A razor-back, or tent roustabout, struck Johnny on the head with a tent stake. Johnny dropped like an empty meal sack. At once four attendants dragged him beneath the tent wall into a shady corner. There, after tying his hands and feet, they waited for his return to consciousness.
Little by little Johnny came to himself, and began to fumble at his fetters.
“Wow! What hit me?” he grumbled, as he attempted to rub his bruised head.
“You fell and struck your head on a tent pole,” grinned a razor-back.
“Some scrapper, eh?” a second man commented.
“Dope or moonshine?” asked a third.
“Neither,” exclaimed Johnny. “It was—darn it! No. That’s none of your business. But I’ll get it back if I have to follow this one-horse show from Boston to Texas.”
“You won’t follow nothin’ just at present,” scowled the razor-back, eying his shackles with satisfaction. “That guy you hit had to go to the show’s surgeon.”
“Wow!” ejaculated his companion. “And I bet this little feller doesn’t weigh a hundred and ten stripped! How’d he do it?”