“Don’t turn your head, Scout, but listen to me.”
“Yes?” he said.
“I am being kept prisoner by Black Bill. I am miserable. Oh, rescue me, rescue me!”
“I will—but how?” said Danny, keeping his eyes on the conjurer, and pretending to laugh as if he was amused at his jokes.
“Come to the big yellow caravan at midnight. Knock three times. Black Bill will be out. The old woman sleeps sound. Then we can make a plan.”
Danny’s heart beat wildly. Here was an adventure such as he loved. And the chivalry of rescuing a maiden in distress made him feel he was like one of Arthur’s knights. Then a thought flashed into his mind—the tramp’s missing daughter!
As Danny sat in the centre of the circus ring with the gas-lights flaring and the band playing, it all seemed to him like some strange dream, or as if he had stepped back into the past and was part of a fairy tale. And there was a “princess” in the fairy tale, too. The frightened grey eyes of the poor little dancer, with her brown face and gleaming jewels, had awakened a chivalrous sense in him, that said, “I will save her, or die in the attempt!”
Before long the time came for him to step forward and help the conjurer once again—she had whispered her instructions only just in time. Danny cared no longer for the tricks; he scarcely noticed what was happening during the rest of the performance; his mind was working hard, turning over plans by which he could save the girl from the clutches of Black Bill, and get her out of the gipsy camp unseen.
The conjurer having finished all his tricks the Indian troupe went off, and ladies in pink tights came on, riding white horses. But Danny had no eyes for these; through a crack in the canvas he watched Black Bill throw a cloak around the dancer and lead her out.
At last the show was over. The crowd surged out, and Danny with it. In such a crush it would be easy to get near the yellow caravan, unnoticed. Then it struck him that his scout uniform would make him a marked figure. He must look as ordinary as possible, so as to attract no one’s attention. Slipping into a dark corner between the big tent and the lion’s cage, he began to disguise himself as best he could. Taking off his hat he hid it under a heap of dirty straw. His red neckerchief he folded up and put in his pocket. Taking off his shirt he turned it inside out and put it on again, thus hiding from sight his badges, Leader’s stripes, shoulder names, etc. He pulled up his stockings over his knees, and then, as a last bright idea, tied an old piece of sacking round his waist, like an apron. He had noticed that the boy who cleaned out the animals’ cages wore just such an apron. Now, by the flickering light of the gas flares, he would pass as one of the circus hands.