He might have wondered more had not one of the men poured a yellow liquid into a cup, and handed it to him.
"Drink this, my man," said he.
Then everybody laughed. The liquid was sweet. Philemon liked it. He drank every drop. Soon he began to feel very bright and merry; and when a new song was sung he joined lustily in the chorus. He had a clear, high, ringing voice.
"Bless us!" exclaimed Mons. Duval. "Tip us a song yourself, boy."
Not a whit abashed, Philemon began to sing.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mons. Duval. "Tim Luker, what used to do our first tribble, was took sick this morning. What d'ye say, youngster, to being blacked up, and singing this evening to the circus along o' our minstrel troupe?"
That yellow liquid was in Philemon's blood. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks flamed.
"Yes, I'll sing," cried he, boisterously, "and I'll go to the ends of the earth with you."
After dinner—it was strange—he felt very drowsy. Mons. Duval, for some reason, was extremely amused, and considered it a great joke.
"You lay down here and take a nap," he said, and actually took off his own coat to put over Philemon. The boy slept all that afternoon; indeed, he never opened his eyes till it was nearly time for the evening's entertainment to begin.