Once there was a thrill of excitement for him, when the Indian warriors, their evening act over, hurried past him in a group and disappeared within the opening of a small tent, on the outskirts of the grounds.
Time passed, and it had struck nine o'clock a half hour ago. The show would be over in half an hour more. Young Joe Warren, who had seen the main circus in the afternoon and who was strolling in and about the side-shows, suddenly found himself accosted by Tim Reardon, who gasped out a greeting as though the words choked him.
"Hello, Tim," replied Joe, eying him with astonishment. "Say, what's the matter? Any of the snakes got loose? You look as though they were after you."
Tim was breathless, sure enough, as though he were being pursued. His very eyes seemed to have grown larger, and he was hardly able to stand still long enough to reply.
"Come on, Joe," he whispered. "I'll show you something. Better'n snakes, a big sight. Easy now, don't talk. Follow me."
Young Joe Warren, a boy slightly taller than Tim and perhaps a year older, ready at all times for a lark, followed his barefoot guide, but on the look-out, half suspecting it was one of Tim's tricks. They threaded their way through a maze of carts and circus paraphernalia, out to the edge of the grounds; past a line of small tents, used as the encampment of the performers, to a grove of maple trees skirting the field.
"I say, Tim, what's up, anyway?" inquired Joe Warren presently. "You needn't think you can fool me—"
"Sh-h-h," warned Tim, turning and raising a hand to silence his companion. "Here he is."
He took a few steps forward, grasped Joe Warren's arm, brought him to a stand-still and pointed toward a figure that reclined upon a blanket spread beneath a tree.
"Well, what of it—what is it?" asked Joe Warren, "I don't see anything but somebody asleep."