“Is he hurt much?”  
“Don’t know. Maybe he’s broken his neck.”
 
This brief dialogue ensued between two painted clowns hurrying to their stations.
 
In the meantime the band struck up a lively air, the clowns launched into a merry medley¹ of song and jest and in a few moments the spectators forgot the scene they had just witnessed, in the noise, the dash and the color. It would come back to them later like some long-past dream.
 
Mr. Kennedy, with grim, set face, uttered a stern command to Emperor, who for a brief instant had stood irresolute², as if pondering as to whether he should turn and plunge³ for the red silk curtains behind which his little friend had disappeared in the arms of the attendants.
 
The trainer’s voice won, and Emperor trumpeting⁴ loudly, took his way to his quarters without further protest.
 
In the dressing⁵ tent another scene was being enacted⁶. On two drawn-up trunks, over which had been thrown a couple of horse blankets, they had laid the slender, red-clad figure of Phil Forrest.
 
The boy’s pale face appeared even more ashen⁷ than it really was under the flickering⁸ glare of the gasoline torches. His head had been propped⁹ up on a saddle, while about him stood a half circle of solemn-faced performers in various stages of undress and makeup¹⁰.
 
“Is he badly hurt?” asked one.
 
“Can’t say. Miaco has gone for the doc. We’ll know pretty soon. That was a dandy tumble he took.”
 
“How did it happen?”
 
“Wire broke. You can’t put no faith on a wire with a kink in it. I nearly got my light put out, out in St. Joe, Missouri, by a trick like that. No more swinging wire for me. Guess the kid, if he pulls out of this, will want to hang on to a rope after this. He will if he’s wise.”
 
“What’s this? What’s this?” roared Mr. Sparling, who, having heard of the accident, came rushing into the tent. “Who’s hurt?”
 
“The kid,” informed someone.
 
“What kid? Can’t you fellows talk? Oh, it’s Forrest, is it? How did it happen?”
 
One of the performers who had witnessed the accident related what he had observed.
 
“Huh!” grunted¹¹ the showman, stepping up beside Phil and placing a hand on the boy’s heart.
 
“Huh!”
 
“He’s alive, isn’t he, Mr. Sparling?”
 
“Yes. Anybody gone for the doctor?”
 
“Miaco has.”
 
“Wonder any of you had sense enough to think of that. I congratulate you. Somebody will suffer when I find out who was responsible for hanging that boy’s life on a rotten old piece of wire. I presume it’s been kicking around this outfit¹² for the last seven years.”
 
“Here comes the doc,” announced a voice.
 
There was a tense silence in the dressing tent, broken only by the patter of the rain drops on the canvas roof, while the show’s surgeon was making his examination.
 
“Well, well! What about it?” demanded Mr. Sparling impatiently.
 
The surgeon did not answer at once. His calm, professional demeanor¹³ was not to be disturbed by the blustering¹⁵ but kind- hearted showman, and the showman, knowing this from past experience, relapsed into silence until such time as the surgeon should conclude to answer him.
 
“Did he fall on his head?” he questioned, looking up, at the same time running his fingers over Phil’s dark-brown hair.
 
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
 
“I should say so.”
 
“What’s the matter with him?”
 
“I shall be unable to decide definitely for an hour or so yet, unless he regains¹⁶ consciousness in the meantime. It may be a fracture of the skull¹⁷ or a mere¹⁸ concussion¹⁹.”
 
“Huh!”
 
Mr. Sparling would have said more, but for the fact that the calm eyes of the surgeon were fixed²⁰ upon him in a level gaze.
 
“Any bones broken?”
 
“No; I think not. How far did he fall?”
 
“Fell from Emperor’s head when the bull was up in the air. He must have taken all of a twenty-foot dive, I should say.”
 
“Possible? It’s a great wonder he didn’t break his neck. But he is very well muscled for a boy of his age. I don’t suppose they have a hospital in this town?”
 
“Of course not. They never have anything in these tank towns. You ought to know that by this time.”

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