There you go. Right. Now let's see if you woodenheads know enough to keep the wagon right side up." Mr. Sparling took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, while Phil stood off calmly surveying the men who were straightening the wagon, but with more caution than they had exercised before. "Come here, boy." Someone touched Phil on the arm. "What is it?" "Boss wants to speak to you." "Who?" "Boss Sparling, the fellow over there with the big voice and the sombrero." Phil walked over and touched his hat to Mr. Sparling. The showman looked the lad over from head to foot. "What's your name?" He shot the question at the lad as if angry about something, and he undoubtedly was. "Phil Forrest." "Do they grow your kind around here?" "I can't say, sir." "If they do, I'd like to hire a dozen or more of them. You've got more sense than any boy of your age I ever saw. How old are you?" "Sixteen." "Huh! I wish I had him!" growled Mr. Sparling. "What do you want?" "I should like to have a chance to earn a pass to the show this afternoon. Rodney Palmer said the boss canvasman might give me a chance to earn one." "Earn one? Earn one?" Mr. Sparling's voice rose to a roar again. "What in the name of Old Dan Rice do you think you've been doing? Here you've kept a cage with a five-thousand-dollar lion from tipping over, to say nothing of the people who might have been killed had the brute got out, and you want to know how you can earn a pass to the show? What d'ye think of that?" and the owner appealed helplessly to an assistant who had run across the lot, having been attracted to the scene by the uproar. The assistant grinned. "He's too modest to live." "Pity modesty isn't more prevalent in this show, then. How many do you want? Have a whole section if you say the word." "How many are there in a section?" asked Phil. " 'Bout a hundred seats." Phil gasped. "I--I guess two will be enough," he made answer. "Here you are," snapped the owner, thrusting a card at the lad, on which had been scribbled some characters, puzzling to the uninitiated. "If you want anything else around this show you just ask for it, young man. Hey, there! Going to be all day getting that canvas up? Don't you know we've got a parade coming along in a few hours?" Phil Forrest, more light of heart than in many days, turned away to acquaint his companion of his good fortune.Teddy Tucker was making his way cautiously back to thescene of the excitement of a few moments before. "Did he get away?" Teddy questioned, ready to run at the drop of the hat should the danger prove to be still present. "Who, the manager?" "No, the lion." "He's in the cage where he's been all the time. They haven't opened it yet, but I guess he's all right. Say, Teddy!" "Say it." "I've got a pass to the show for two people for both performances--this afternoon and tonight." The interest that the announcement brought to Teddy's eyes died away almost as soon as it appeared. "Going?" "Am I going? I should say so. Want to go in with me on my pass, Teddy?" The lad hitched his trousers, took a critical squint at the canvas that was slowly mounting the center pole to the accompaniment of creaking ropes, groaning tackle and confused shouting. "They're getting the menagerie tent up. I'll bet it's going to be a dandy show," he vouchsafed. "How'd you get the tickets?" "Manager gave them to me." "What for?" "I did a little work for him. Helped get the lion's cage straightened up. How about it--are you going in on my pass?" "N-o-o," drawled Teddy. "Might get me into bad habits to go in on a pass. I'd rather sneak in under the tent when the boss isn't looking."