"Look out; he'll get you, Tim," said George Warren.
"Gee!" exclaimed Little Tim. "Bet I wouldn't like to be tied to that tree, though."
"Why not?" asked Jack Harvey, grinning at Tim's serious expression.
"Because, how'd I know they wouldn't forget some time and go ahead and really scalp me? Oh, they might do it, all right. You needn't laugh. I wouldn't like to be mas-sick-ered the way they were at that Fort some-thing-or-other in the Last of the Mohigginses."
"Ho, you mean the 'Last of the Mohicans,'—the book I told you about, eh?" said Henry Burns—"all about Uncas and the rest."
"That's it," cried Little Tim. "Wouldn't I like to be Un-cuss, though, and scalp Red Bull."
"Fine!" laughed Henry Burns. "Come on, we'll go up to the circus grounds."
To Little Tim the afternoon was one glorious dream; a dream through which there pranced horses in bright trappings, ridden by be-spangled men and women; chariots rumbled in mad races; bicyclists shot down fearful inclines; and the whole proceedings made glad to the heart of the youngster by the roaring of wild beasts.
The impending torture of Gen. Miles's scout was happily averted by the timely arrival of a band of mounted soldiers, whose cracking rifles laid in the dust the painted warriors—barely in time to save Little Tim, also, from utter collapse. He emerged from the tent, some hours later, wild eyed; so freighted down with red lemonade and peanuts that if dropped overboard he must surely have sunk without a struggle.
Evening came, and with it the night performance. Night found Little Tim again on the grounds. True, he had no money for a ticket, but it was a delight to wander about the grounds; to climb upon the great carts and be chased off by angry circus men. The gaudy canvases, stretched here and there, reminded him of what he had seen inside; and he eyed them affectionately.