It was nearly time for the doors to open, and inside and out the two big "tops" there was a bustle of preparation. The "spielers" in the ticket stands at the side-show were yelling, people were crowding about the ticket wagon, where they were to buy pasteboards admitting them to the "big show," and a band was playing in the road beyond the grounds.
Above all these various sounds there came a call, wild and frantic. It reached the ears of the two boys in the calliope tent with strange distinctness, and cut McGlory short while he was talking.
"Helup! Helup, somepody, or I vas a goner!"
The cowboy gave a jump for the door, only a foot or two behind Matt.
"Was that your Dutch pard?" cried McGlory.
"It was his voice, plain enough," answered Matt, looking around sharply.
"What could have gone wrong with him?"
"I can't imagine—here, in broad daylight, with the grounds full of people."
"It's trouble of the worst kind if we're to take the words as they sounded."
Matt believed this fully. Carl Pretzel was not the lad to give a false alarm, and he had clearly put his whole heart into the words Matt and McGlory had heard.