His mind, however, was not always on his brush and cloth. In the grand parade, which, in Chicago did not leave the tent, but circled about in the mammoth enclosure, while the vast crowds cheered, Millie Gonzales rode standing on these three fat chargers, that, with tossing manes and champing bits, seemed at every moment ready to break her control and go rushing down the arena. Johnny was to take the horses to the entrance of the big tent. That much he had been told. Would he there turn them over to Millie? And would she be wearing the missing ring? The answers to these questions he could only guess.
It was with a wildly beating heart that he at last led his three horses down the narrow canvas enclosure which led to the great tent. Already the procession was forming. Here a group of clowns waited in silence. Here a great gilded chariot rumbled forward, and here a trained elephant was being fitted with his rider’s canopied seat.
By this director, then that one, Johnny was guided to the spot from which his three dapple grays would start.
He had hardly reached the position than a high-pitched, melodious, but slightly scornful, voice said:
“Why! Who are you? Where’s Peter?”
“Who’s Peter?” asked Johnny, doffing his cap respectfully, but studying the girl’s hands the meanwhile.
“Why, he’s my groom.”
“Begging your pardon, he’s not; I am.”
“You?” She stood back and surveyed him with unveiled scorn. “You? A little shrimp like you?”
Johnny was angry. Hot words rushed to his lips but remained unspoken. He was playing a big game. For the time he must repress his pride.