Joe Rodgers, in spite of the boys’ support and encouragement, lacked the air of rugged bravado which usually characterized him.
“I don’t wanter go back to Whiffin, fellers,” he wailed, continually. “But I know that he’s goin’ to put up an awful holler, ’cause when I gits down to work I kin do a turrible lot.”
“Brace up, Joe,” said Dave. “You are not back in the circus yet.”
Suddenly the sound of voices and footsteps at the door much louder than any which had come before caused that particular part of the room to become the target of many eyes.
A large, portly man entered and directed his footsteps straight toward the desk behind the railing. This, and the hush which immediately ensued, proclaimed him to be the magistrate. Closely following came Peter Whiffin and Mr. Ollie Spudger.
The former’s eyes were instantly roving about the room, and his keen gaze soon picked out from the throng the forms of Joe Rodgers and his friends.
“There he is, Spudger!” he exclaimed, in a voice which rang through the room with appalling distinctness. “He runned away, all right, but he didn’t git very far. Here, you, boy”—he advanced, with his finger poised threateningly in the air—“it’s back to the canvas tents for you. Come right along.”
“I ain’t goin’ to!” growled Joe.
“Uncle Ralph, permit me to introduce Mr. Whiffin, of somewhere,” chirped Victor Collins.
The circus manager glared at the burly skipper.