Act followed act. In the small sawdust circle the celebrated Randolpho troupe of acrobats, as well as jugglers and clowns did their best to amuse; and frequent manifestations of approval came to encourage their efforts.
“Say, just listen to that!” cried Victor, suddenly holding up his hand.
A dull moaning roar was sounding outside, and during the lulls they could hear a patter of rain beating against the canvas. A chilly wind took advantage of every opening, while the dingy canvas sides swayed back and forth in the gusts.
“The storm has broken at last,” said Dave.
“Gee!” grunted Victor. He raised his coat collar. “I guess we’re in for a good soaking, Brandon.”
“By the time the show lets out it may have lessened a bit,” returned Dave, encouragingly. “Ah ha; there is our friend, at last.”
“Hello—Bill Potts!” quoth Victor.
“Hush, lad, hush,” laughed Dave. “Ormond de Sylveste, you mean.”
Standing gracefully upon the back of a white horse, the chief equestrian of Spudger’s rode impressively into the ring. He bore no more resemblance to the melancholy-looking Bill Potts of the earlier hours than did the bright, glistening spangles and other embellishments of his costume to his old, discarded clothes. Bill Potts—temporarily, at least—existed no more; Ormond de Sylveste now reigned in his stead.
Crack! Crack! The sound of the ringmaster’s whip, rising sharply above the roar of the storm, sent the white horse into a swift gallop around the ring. Faster—still faster, but never too fast for the intrepid Ormond, pounded the flying hoofs. Gracefully he poised on one foot; with easy skill he crashed through paper-covered hoops held up by a powdered and painted clown, then turned wonderful somersaults, never missing his footing on the back of the flying steed.