The Circus Boys on the Mississippi Part 25

"Oh, yes, you do."

"You mean with regard to Diaz?"

"That's what I mean. Have you had any trouble?"

"We had a slight disagreement," admitted the lad.

"Tell me about it."

"Wait! There goes the music."

The ringmaster's whip cracked its warning and the gray horse started at a slow gallop. Phil was up beside his companion with agility and grace. The first round or two they stood poised on the horse, while Phil related briefly what had taken place between himself and Diaz.

"Come, aren't you two going to get to work?" demanded the ringmaster.

"You attend to your own work. We'll look out for ours,"

snapped Dimples.

"Yes, and if you think you can do better just come up and try,"

added Phil, with a good-natured laugh. "Up, Dimples!"

He threw her lightly to his shoulders, on which the woman stood poised, making as graceful and pretty a picture as had ever been seen in a circus ring. Fragile as she was, it seemed as if Phil were all too slender to support her weight.

The act brought a whirlwind of applause.

"You look out for him, Phil. I--"

"Jump, Dimples!"

The ring horse had suddenly stumbled, its nose plowing up the sawdust in a cloud.

Phil, with rare presence of mind, lifted the feet from his shoulders and hurled the girl far from him.

"Land on your feet!" he shouted, then Phil plunged off, head first.

CHAPTER XIII

A NARROW ESCAPE

Thanks to Phil's presence of mind, Dimples had landed lightly on her feet well outside the ring curbing. Had the lad held to her ankles even a second too long the result must have been serious, if not fatal, for Dimples would have been hurled to the ground head first.

As it was, Phil gave her a lift, enabling her to double and "ball," a circus term meaning to curl one's feet up under the body, then straighten them as needed to give the body balance either in turning a somersault or in falling.

In doing so, however, Phil had had no thought for his own safety.

He plunged forward over the head of the ring horse, striking the ground on his head and face.

The force of his fall had been broken somewhat by his quickly throwing out his hands in front of him and relaxing the muscles of his body. Circus performers soon learn how to fall--how to make the best of every situation with which they are confronted.

Despite this, his fall had been a severe and dangerous one.

"There, he has done it! I knew he would," cried Mr. Sparling, rus.h.i.+ng to the ring. Quick as he was, Dimples was ahead of him.

She leaped the ring curbing and dropped down beside him, not caring for the dust and the dirt that soiled her pretty costume.

"Phil! Phil!" she cried.

Phil did not answer at the moment.

"Is he hurt--is he killed?" demanded Mr. Sparling excitedly.

"Of course he is hurt. Can't you see he is?" answered Dimples testily.

She turned the boy over and looked into his face. The dirt was so ground into the handsome, boyish face as to make it scarcely recognizable.

"Lift him up. Get some of the attendants to carry him back!"

commanded the woman impatiently.

"No, no!" protested Phil in a m.u.f.fled voice, for his mouth was full of sawdust and dirt. "I'm all right. Don't worry about me."

"He's all right," repeated the showman. "I'll help you up, Phil."

Phil, like the plucky performer that he was, declined their offers of a.s.sistance and struggled to his feet. He was dizzy and staggered a little, but after a moment succeeded in overmastering his inclination to faint.

A fleck of blood on his lips showed through makeup and sawdust.

"I'm all right. Don't worry about me," he said, with a forced smile.

Dimples sought to brush the dirt from his face with her handkerchief, but he put her aside gently, and, with a low bow, threw a kiss to the audience.

Their relief was expressed in a roar of applause.

Phil staggered over to where the ring horse still lay near the center of the ring and knelt down beside it, examining the leg that was doubled up under the animal.

The ringmaster cracked his whip lash as a signal for the animal to get up, but the faithful old horse, despite its efforts to rise, was unable to do so.

"What is the matter with him?" demanded Mr. Sparling.

"Jim has broken a leg, I think," answered Phil sadly. "Too bad, too bad!"

The lad patted the head of the horse and ran his fingers through the grey mane. Tears stood in Phil Forrest's eyes, for he had ridden this horse and won most of his triumphs on its resined back during the past three years.

"Dimples, I guess we have ridden Jim for the last time," said Phil in a low voice. "Hadn't you better start the other acts, Mr. Sparling. The audience will become uneasy."

"Yes, yes," answered the showman, waving his hand to the band, a signal that they were to play and the show to go on as usual.

"Are you sure, Phil--sure Jim has not merely strained the leg?"

"I am sure. He never will perform again."