“And we can keep it in that cave we found!” chirruped Indian, happily. “Bless my soul, that’ll be fine! I’ll go! I think it’ll be lots of fun to go to a circus in disguise.”
“Circuses are deucedly vulgah affairs,” commented the aristocratic Chauncey, with a sniff.
But even that young gentleman condescended to go when he found that all the rest were swept away by the prospect of seeing Texas ride “Smasher.” And as for Texas, he doubled up his fists and gritted his teeth and vowed he was going “to smash that ole show or git smashed doin’ it!”
Texas was destined to have all the fun he wanted that afternoon.
CHAPTER II.
THE CIRCUS AT HIGHLAND FALLS.
Drills were over for that day, and likewise dinner, and the corps had been dismissed, excepting members who had extra tours of guard duty to do by way of punishment. This included one of the Seven, the unfortunate granger from Kansas, “Sleepy,” who had forgotten to invert his washbowl at the “A. M. inspection.”
Poor Sleepy was obliged to shoulder his musket with what grace he could and sadly watch his friends vanish in the woods.
The wicked drummer boy, who was getting rich nowadays by furnishing contraband disguises for the yet more wicked Banded Seven, had designated a place where he would hide the “duds,” and for that place the six made with all possible speed. Some hour or so later there were three curious-looking couples strolling down the road to the Falls.
The drum orderly, with considerable appropriateness, had furnished a full dress evening suit for Chauncey. It being afternoon, Chauncey had indignantly refused to “dream” of wearing it, and so the meek Indian had had his fat limbs crowded into the costume. Texas had a flaming red sweater and huge farmer’s trousers with one suspender. Mark had the tattered remains of a tennis blazer and checkerboard “pants.” The Parson was muttering anathemas at the facetious lad who had gotten, from somewhere, a clerical costume with a rip up the back, and Dewey was handsome and resplendent in one of the drum orderly’s own cast-off uniforms. Poor Chauncey having refused the swallow-tails, was doomed to be commonplace in a white flannel costume last worn by a coal heaver.