"Now tell me, if you will, what the routine of the work on an advance car is," said Phil after he and Billy had sat down beside the tracks.
"It would take all night to do that, but I'll give you a few pointers and the rest you will have to pick up for yourself. In the first place an advertising car includes billposters, lithographers, banner men and at least one programmer."
"Sounds all right, but it doesn't mean much of anything to me," laughed Phil.
"The billposters post the large bills on the billboards, and anywhere else that they can get a chance, mostly out in the country and in the country towns. In places where there is a regular billposter, he does that work for us. Any boards not owned by a billposter, or a barn or a pigpen or a henhouse on the road is called a 'daub.' At least two tickets are given for every place we put a piece of paper on. These tickets are numbered and signed. Now, if a fellow out in Kankakee, we will say, should chance to tear down the bill, when he presented his ticket at the gate on the day of the show, it would be refused. He'd pay or stay out."
"But how would they know he had taken down the poster," questioned Phil.
"Checkers follow along at intervals and check up every piece of paper we put up. We send the record of our work to the car back of us and they in turn send our and their reports to the car behind them."
"It is a wonderful system, indeed," marveled Phil.
"Yes. To go back a little I will say that this is a 'scout car' or what is known among showmen as 'the opposition car.' It goes only where there is trouble, where there is opposition. For instance, more than half a dozen shows are coming into this territory, this season, and it is up to us to cover every available space with our paper before their cars get on the ground."
"But will they not paste their bills over yours, over those you have already put up?"
"They seldom do. It is an unwritten law in the show business that this is not to be done."
Teddy had come up to them in time to hear the last remark.
"I thought there wasn't any law, written or unwritten, in this business," he said.
"You will find there is, young man. Then, to come to the lithographers, as I think I already have told you, these men place small bills in store and shop windows, giving tickets for the privilege the same as do the billposters. One man goes ahead of them and does what we call 'the squaring,' meaning that he enters the stores and asks the privilege of putting up the lithographs. In most cases the owners of the places object, and he has to convince them that it is to their advantage to have the paper in their windows."
"I didn't think there was so much to it, but I think I should like that work. I'll be a squarer," decided Teddy.
"The banner men put up what are called 'banners,' cloth signs. These are tacked up in high places and the banner men have to be good climbers. They fill their mouths with tacks, points in, heads out. They use magnetic hammers."
"What's this, a joke?" interrupted Teddy.
"It is not a joke. The head of each hammer so used is a magnet, and is used to pick the tacks from the mouth of the banner man. The tack sticks to the head of the hammer and is thus ready to be driven. An expert banner man will drive tacks almost as rapidly as you could fire a self-acting revolver."
"That is odd. What does the fellow called the programmer do?"
"He takes the small printed matter around, and drops it on doorsteps and in stores. When we are making a day run with the car he drops the printed matter off at stations and crossroads, or wherever he sees a man. Following us come route-riders."
"What are they?"
"Men who ride over the country routes to see whether the billposters have put up the paper indicated on their reports, or thrown the stuff in a ditch somewhere. After them come checkers, one after the other. This is Car Three, as you know. Car Two follows about two weeks behind us, and Car One comes along a week ahead of the show. What are you going to do?"
"Mr. Snowden said I was to go out with one of the men on a country route."
"Then you come along with me, unless he directs you differently. I can give you pointers that would take you a long time to learn were you left to pick them up yourself. Don't say anything to him about it unless he speaks to you, but prepare to go out with me early in the morning. I have a big drive tomorrow, some fifty miles, and you will get all you want for one day's work."
"Yes; that will be fine."
"What is your friend here to do?"
"I am the paste-maker," answered Teddy with a sheepish grin."I make the stickum stuff for this outfit."
"A nice job," jeered the assistant manager. "You will get all you want of that work in about thirty minutes. The Boss must certainly have a grudge against you. You will be hanging around the car all day, however, and if the Boss is away any you will have a chance to get forty winks of sleep in the stateroom now and then."
"No; Teddy is not here to sleep. He is here to work."
"Yes; everybody works around here but Father."
"Is the work the same on the advance cars of all shows?"
"All circuses, yes. We do things just the same as the fellows did them forty years ago. Nobody seems to have head enough to do things differently, and goodness knows some modern methods are necessary."
"How long have you been on this car?"
"Four years; this is my fifth season here."
"Why, that is exactly the time we have been with theSparling Shows."
Billy nodded.
"I saw you work last season. You are a bird on the trapeze, and ride—whew, but you can beat anything I ever saw on bareback! I knew I had seen you before when you came in this evening, but I couldn't place you. I remembered after a little. Say, Phil, I'm glad you handed it out to the Boss this afternoon."
"And I am very sorry. I don't know what Mr. Sparling will think of it. Still, I had to do something. I saw right away that he had made up his mind to treat us badly. What time do we pull out tonight?"
"Twelve o'clock, I think. And speaking of that, it is time to turn in."
The three entered the car. Mr. Snowden already had turned in, his end of the car being dark and silent. Most of the billposters also had climbed to their berths near the roof of the car, and some of them were snoring heavily.
"Do they do this all night long?" questioned Teddy.
"Do what?"
"Roll logs!"
"Well, yes," laughed Billy; "they are pretty good snorers, all of them. Do you snore?"
"I might, on a pinch. I don't know whether I do or not. I am usually asleep when I snore. How about it, Phil, do I snore?"
"Not when I am within punching distance of you."
The boys undressed, got into their pajamas, and after considerable effort managed to climb to the top of the pile of paper, where their blankets had been spread for them by the porter.
"Not much of a bed, is it Teddy?" laughed Phil.
"The worst ever!" agreed Teddy. "How I'm going to stick in that bed when the car gets under motion I don't know. I wish I was back with the show."
"Never mind, old chap. We have had things pretty easy for the last four years. A little hardship will not hurt either of us. And I know we are going to like this life, after we get more used to it. What time do we get up; do you know?"
"No, I don't know anything about it. I guess in time for late breakfast," answered Teddy grimly. "Good night."
In a few minutes the Circus Boys were sound asleep. They did not even awaken when, about midnight, a switch engine hooked to their car, and after racing them up and down the railroad yards a few times, coupled them to the rear of the passenger train that was to pull them to their next stand, some seventy-five miles away. A few minutes later and they were rolling away. The road was a crooked one and the car swayed dizzily, but they were too used to the sensation to be in the least disturbed by it.
An hour or two had passed when, all at once, every man in the car was suddenly startled by a blood-curdling yell and a wild commotion somewhere in the darkness of the car.
"What is it?"
"Are we wrecked?"
"What did we hit?"
This and other exclamations were shouted in loud tones, as the men came tumbling from their berths, some sprawling over the floor, where a lurch of the car had hurled them.
"Strike a light!"
"Are we off the rails?"
"No, you idiot. Don't you feel the car going just the same as before? And he's wheeling her a mile a minute at that. Hurry with that light, somebody!" commanded Billy.
At this moment they heard the sliding door of the manager's stateroom come open with a crash.
"Now, here's trouble for certain!" muttered the Missing Link."The Boss is on deck."
"I guess my friend Teddy has got into trouble," said Phil Forrest, slipping quickly from his bed on top of a pile of gaudy circus posters. "Ted! Ted, where are you?"
There was no answer.
"What is all this row about?" thundered the manager, stalking down the car, clad only in his pajamas.
"We do not know, sir. We are trying to find out. I am afraid my friend has fallen out of bed and hurt himself," answered Phil.
"I hope it killed him!" bellowed Mr. Snowden. "The idea of waking up the whole car at this time of the night! This nonsense has got to stop, and right quick at that. Where's that light?"
Phil was groping about the floor, trying hurriedly to locate Teddy. But no Teddy was to be found.
Finally a match flickered; after lurching about the car the man with the match finally succeeded in locating the bracket lamp near the end of the car.
Anxious eyes peered about them in the dim light.
"Look!" howled Rosie the Pig.
A pair of wildly kicking legs were seen protruding from one of the big paste cans, these cans being made like the big garbage cans that one sees in backyards in the city.
"It's Teddy! There he is!" cried Phil, springing forward.
"He's gone in the paste can head first!" yelled another of the crew.
"Help me get him out; he has stuck fast!" shouted Phil, tugging desperately at his companion's heels.
The car set up a roar of laughter at the ludicrous sight. To Phil, however, it was no laughing matter. The paste can was nearly full of paste and of about the same consistency as dough in a bread pan. It was thick and wickedly blue, for it had been mixed with bluestone to preserve it until required by the billposters.
"Pull him out, you idiots!" bellowed the car manager. "If he isn't dead now, he can't be killed. Pull him out and throw him overboard!"
Phil flashed an indignant look at Mr. Snowden.
By this time others had come to his assistance. It required their united efforts to rescue Teddy from his perilous predicament.
They hauled him out and laid him on the door.
"Teddy, Teddy!" cried Phil, but Tucker made no reply. In the first place his mouth was so full of paste that he could not utter a sound. Again, he was half unconscious, nearly smothered and still unable to breathe freely.
Phil grabbed off the jacket of his own pajamas and began wiping the blue paste from the unfortunate lad's mouth, eyes and nose.
A happy thought appeared to strike the car manager. He dashed to the sink, and, quickly filling a pail of water, ran back to the spot where Teddy was lying.
Snowden turned the pail bottom side up, apparently intending to douse the water into Tucker's face.
Instead, the contents of the pail landed on Phil Forrest's head, spreading itself over his bare back, and trickled down in rivulets over Teddy's face.
The water was almost ice cold.
"Wow!" howled Phil, springing to his feet. "Who did that?"
"I did, and I'll do it again," jeered the car manager.
"Get me another pail, but I'll do the spilling this time.Don't you dare duck me again, or I'll settle with you afterI get through with my friend."
One of the crew grabbed up the pail to run for water. This time the pail was handed to Phil who instantly began mopping the face of young Tucker.
In a moment or so Teddy began to gasp. His dive had nearly been the end of him.
"Get a net," he murmured as he slowly came to, whereat everyone save the car manager laughed loudly. "Wha—what happened? Did we run off the track?"
"No, you took a high dive into a can of paste," jeered Billy."You're the champion high diver of Car Three."
Mr. Snowden, stooping over, grabbed the luckless Teddy by the collar and jerked him to his feet.
"Get up, you lummox!" he commanded.
Teddy blinked very fast. Mr. Snowden began to shake him.Phil stepped forward quickly and pushed the car manager away.
"Wha—what!" growled Snowden, an angry light leaping into his eyes.
"You let the boy alone," commanded Phil. "Because he has had an accident is no reason why you should punish him!"
"You—you—you—"
Phil paid no heed to him, but led the unsteady Teddy to the far end of the compartment.
"You get off this car, both of you!" yelled the manager.
"What, with the train running sixty miles an hour?" questionedPhil, turning slowly.
"Yes; I don't care if it kills you both. Good riddance—good job if it did."
"I think you have another guess coming, Mr. Car Manager," repliedPhil calmly.
Snowden glared at the Circus Boy who had thus defied him; then turning sharply on his bare heel he strode back to his stateroom.
A broad grin appeared on the faces of the car crew.
"I guess that will be about all for this evening," announced Rain-in-the-Face.
"Is there a rope on this car?" asked Phil.
"Yes; what do you want a rope for?" replied Billy.
"He's going to complete the job by hanging the Boss from a brake beam," spoke up Rosie.
"Not quite as bad as that, I guess," laughed Phil. "I am going to tie my friend Teddy in his bed. There is no telling what may happen to him, if I do not. Teddy, had we happened to be sound sleepers you would in all probability be dead by this time."
Tucker shivered.
"That would please Mr. Snowden too much, you know."
"Then tie me in. I don't want to please him. Did he duck me while I was asleep?"
"He tried to. As it chanced my bare back got most of the ducking," answered Phil with a short laugh, for he believed the car manager had purposely poured the water on him.
"But he shook me," protested Teddy.
"He did that," chorused the crew. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Well," reflected Tucker; "I think he and I will fight a duel tomorrow at sunrise."
Once more all hands turned in, Phil humorously making a pretense of tying his companion to his "berth." As a matter of fact, Phil did tie the rope about Teddy's wrist, wrapping the free end about his own arm, and thus the boys went to sleep once more.
It seemed as if they had been asleep only a few minutes when they were suddenly startled into wakefulness by a loud noise.
This time, however, it was not a yell, but a roar.
Phil sat up suddenly, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
"Get up, you lazy good-for-nothings!" bellowed the car manager, dancing up and down the aisle, still in his pajamas, his hair standing up, his eyes wild and menacing.
"Is that all?" muttered Teddy, sinking back into a sound sleep again.
Phil sprang from the pile of papers on which he had been sleeping, landing lightly on the floor in his bare feet.
"Good morning, Mr. Snowden. I hope you had a good night's sleep," greeted the Circus Boy.
Snowden glared at the lad, as if trying to make up his mind whether or not Phil was making sport of him. But there was only pleasantness in the face of Phil Forrest.
"Huh!" grunted the manager. Then he once more began racing up and down the car, roaring at his men, threatening and expressing his opinion of them in the way with which Phil already had become familiar.
Teddy lay curled up, with one foot protruding from beneath the covers. Whether or not he had done this purposely, it was difficult to decide. Be that as it may, Mr. Snowden caught sight of the pink foot. He rose to the bait like a bass to a fly.
In another second he had pounced upon the foot. Grabbing it with both hands he gave it a violent tug. Tucker responded. He came slipping from the "berth," throwing the quilts before him as he did so. The quilts landed over the car manager's head. Then came Teddy Tucker.
Ted landed, full on Mr. Snowden's head, with a wild yell.
Down went the manager and the Circus Boy, with the latter on top, in a writhing, howling, confused heap.
"Give it to him, Teddy!" howled the crew.
Tucker, as soon as he could right himself, sat down on the manager's head, at the same time holding Mr. Snowden's hands pinioned to the floor.
The muffled voice under the quilts waxed louder and more angry as the seconds passed. Phil, who had gone to the wash room to make his toilet, hurried back at sound of the row.
"Teddy Tucker, what are you doing?" demanded Phil, for the moment puzzled at the scene before him.
"I'm sitting on the Boss," answered Teddy triumphantly. "Shall I give him one for you?"
"Yes—give him two for each of us," shouted the billposters.
Phil strode to his companion, grabbed the lad by the collar of his pajamas and jerked him from the helpless man under the quilts.
"Now, you behave yourself, young man, or you will have to reckon with me," he commanded, pushing Teddy aside.
"You let me alone. This is my inning. I guess I can sit on theBoss, if I want to, without your interfering with the fun."
Giving no heed to the words, Phil quickly hauled the quilts off and assisted Mr. Snowden to rise.
"I guess Teddy must have fallen on you, sir," suggestedPhil solemnly.
"He did it on purpose! He did it on purpose!"
"You pulled him out of bed, did you not, sir?"
"Yes; and next time I'll pull him so he'll know it. Get out of here, every man of you, and get your breakfasts; then get off on your routes. Things are coming to a fine pass on this car. Young man, I will talk to you later."
The manager, with red face and angry eye, strode to his stateroom, while the grinning billposters made haste to get into their clothes. A few minutes later, and all hands were on their way to breakfast.
This meal at the new hotel was a slight improvement over the dinner they had eaten the night before. Besides, all hands were in good humor, for they had had more real excitement on Car Three, since the advent of the Circus Boys, than at any time during the season.
By the time they reached the car again six livery teams were in waiting for the men who were to go out on the country routes.
All was instantly bustle and excitement. Paste cans were loaded into the wagons, brushes and pails, together with the paper that had been carefully laid out and counted, the night before, for each billposter. A record of this was kept on the car.
Phil lent a hand at loading the stuff, and they found that the slim lad was stronger than any of them. It was an easy matter for him to lift one of the big cans of paste to a wagon without assistance. Teddy, however, stood by with hands thrust in pockets, an amused grin on his face. The baleful eye of the car manager was upon him.
"Have you heard from Mr. Sparling this morning?" asked Phil.
"Yes," answered Mr. Snowden shortly.
"What did he say?"
"That is none of your business, young man."
"You are right. I accept the rebuke. While I am interested, it really is none of my business," answered the lad with a smile.
"Where are you going?"
"You told me to go out on one of the country routes."
"Oh! What route are you going on, if I may ask?"
"I had thought of going with Mr. Conley."
"You will do nothing of the sort. You will go where I tell you to. I—"
"I suggested that he go with me, Mr. Snowden," interposed Billy."I have a hard route to work today and I shall need some help ifI get over it before dark."
"Very well; go on. I hope he falls off a barn or something.If he does, leave him."
"For your sake, I shall try to take care of myself," answeredPhil with an encouraging smile.
"Tucker!"
"Yes, sir."
"Start a fire under that boiler. Henry, you show him how to manage the boiler and mix the paste. I don't imagine he even knows dough when he sees it."
"I know a dough-head when I see one," spoke up Teddy promptly, after delivering himself of which sentiment he strolled away with hands in his pockets, whistling merrily.
The drive to the country in the fresh morning air was a most delightful one to Phil.
After leaving the town they soon came in sight of a deserted house. It evidently had been abandoned, for it was in a bad state of dilapidation.
"There's a dandy daub!" exclaimed Billy. "We'll plaster it with paper until the neighbors won't know it. When we get there, hop off and bring some pails of water, will you?"
"Sure," answered Phil. While he was doing this, the billposter was spreading his paper out on the ground, deciding on the layout that he would post.
A few minutes later and the gaudy bills were going up like magic on the road side of the house and the two ends, so that the pictures might be seen from every point of view from the highway. The house had been transformed into a blaze of color.
"All right," sang out Billy. "Good job, too."
Phil had learned something. He had noted every movement of the billposter.
"How long does it take to learn to post, Billy?" he asked.
"Some fellows never learn. Others get fairly expert after a few weeks puttering around."
"May I try one today?"
"Sure thing. If the next one is easy I will give you a chance at it."
The next daub proved to be a small hay barn a little way back in a field.
"There's your chance, my boy," he said.
Phil jumped out before the wagon had come to a stop and, with paper and brush under his arms, ran across the field. With more skill than might have been expected with his limited experience he smeared the paper with paste, then sought to raise it up to the side of the building as he had seen Billy Conley do.
This was where Phil came to grief. A gust of wind doubled the paper up, the pasted side smearing the bright colors of the face of the picture, until the colors were one hopeless daub. To cap the climax the whole thing came down over Phil's head, wrapping him in its slimy folds.
"Hey, help!" he shouted. "I'm posting myself instead of the barn."
Billy sat down on the ground, laughing until the tears ran down his cheeks.
"If it hadn't been for that unexpected gust of wind I should have made it nicely," explained Phil with a sickly grin. "Oh, pshaw, I'm not as much of a billposters as I thought I was. I guess there is more to this game than I had any idea of."
"You will learn. You took a pretty big contract when you tried to put up that eight-sheet."
"We will let you try a one-sheet on the farther end of the barn. A one-sheet is a small, twenty-eight inch piece of paper, you know."
Phil nodded.
"I'll try it," he said. "I guess a one-sheet is about as big a piece of paper as I am fit to handle just yet."
He managed the one-sheet without the least trouble, and did a very good job, so much so that Billy complimented him highly.
"You will make a billposter yet. One good thing about you is that you are willing to learn, and you are quick to admit that you do not know it all. Most fellows, when they start, have ideas of their own—at least they think they have."
After that Phil did the small work, thinned the paste and made himself generally useful.
"Oh, look at that!" he cried, pointing off ahead of them.
"What is it, Phil?"
"See that building standing up on that high piece of ground.Wouldn't that be a dandy place on which to post some paper?"
The building he had indicated was a tall circular structure, painted a dark red, with a small cupola effect crowning its top.
"That is a silo. You wouldn't be able to get permission to post a bill on there, even if you could get up there to do it," said Conley.
"Why not?"
"Why not? Why that farmer, I'll wager, sets as much store by that building as he does his newly-painted house."
"I'll go ask him. You don't mind if I 'square' him, do you?" questioned the lad with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Ask him, for sure. But we couldn't post up there. We have no ladders that would reach; in fact we have no ladders at all. I mean the farmer has no ladders long enough."
"Never mind; I'll figure out a way," replied the Circus Boy, whose active mind already had decided upon a method by which he thought he might accomplish the feat, providing the farmer was willing.
Reaching the farm, Phil jumped out and ran up to the house.
"Do you own this place, sir?" he asked of the farmer who answered his ring at the bell.
"I do."
"It's a beautiful place. I am representing the Sparling Circus, and we thought we would like to make a display on your silo."
The farmer gazed at him in amazement.
"Young man, you have a cast-iron nerve even to ask such a thing."
"I know the mere matter of tickets to the show will be no inducement to a man of your position. But I am going to make you a present of a box for six people at the circus. You will take your whole family and be my guest. I will not only give you an order for it, but will write a personal letter to the owner, who is my very good friend. He will show you all there is to be seen, and I will see to it that you take dinner with him in the circus tent. No; there is no obligation. All the farmers—all your neighbors will be envious. I want you to come. We won't speak of the silo. I don't expect you to let me post that; but, if you will permit me to put a three-sheet on your hog pen back there, I shall be greatly obliged."
Despite the farmer's protestations, Phil wrote out the order for the box, then scribbled a few lines to Mr. Sparling, which he enclosed in an envelope borrowed from the farmer.
"Thank you so much," beamed the Circus Boy, handing over the letter to the farmer, accompanied by the pass and order for the arena box at the circus. "It is a pleasure to meet a man like you. I come from a country town myself, and have worked some on my uncle's farm."
"You with the circus, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Looks to me like you was a pretty young fellow to be a circus man."
"Oh no, not very. I belong back with the show. I am a performer, you know. I am out with the advertising car to learn the business."
"A performer?" wondered the farmer, looking over the trim figure and bright boyish face. "What do you perform?"
"I perform on the flying trapeze and do a bareback riding act."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know, young fellow, I never got such a close squint at a circus fellow before in my life. But, come to size you up, I reckon you can do all them things you've been telling me about. Yes, sir, I'll go to the circus. Will you be there to cut up in the ring?"
"I cannot say. It is doubtful, as I probably shall be ahead of the show for the rest of the season. Well, thank you very much. We will decorate the hog pen," added the lad, touching his cap and turning away.
An arena box, value twelve dollars, was a pretty high price to pay for a three-sheet on a hog pen, but Phil Forrest knew what he was doing. At least he thought he did, and he did not walk very fast on his way to the road.
"Hey, come back here," called the farmer.
"Yes, sir," answered Phil turning inquiringly.
"Come here."
He walked back to where the farmer was standing fingering the pass and the letter.
"I—I reckon you needn't stick them bills on the hog pen."
The Circus Boy's heart took a sudden drop.
"Very well, sir; just as you say. I do not wish to do anything to displease you."
"But I reckon you can plaster that silo full of them circus pictures from top to bottom, if you want to," was the unexpected announcement.
Phil Forrest's heart bounded back into position again.
"Oh, thank you, thank you ever so much!" answered the lad, his eyes glowing.
"You're a square kid and I like you."
"I appreciate your kindness, I assure you, and I will write a letter to the owner of the show about you this evening when I get back to the car. Have you any ladders that we can borrow, and a long rope?"
"I reckon you'll find all them things in the hay barn.Help yourself. I've got to run up to the back farm, butmaybe I'll be back before you get through your job.So long."
Phil hurried back to the road, where Billy and the wagon were waiting. The lad's feet felt lighter than usual.
"Well, what luck?" demanded Billy.
"I may be a poor apology as a billposter, but as a diplomat I'm a winner, Billy."
"You—you don't mean you got the silo?" gasped Conley.
"I got the silo, and I can have the hog pen too, if I want it, and perhaps the farmer's house thrown in for good measure," answered Phil, his face flushed from his first triumph as a publicity showman.
"Well, of all the nerve!"
"That's what the farmer said," laughed Phil. "But he changed his mind."
"What do you think of that?" demanded Billy, turning to the driver.
"The kid is all right."
"You're right; he is. The next question, now that you have got the silo, is what are you going to do with it?"
"Post it," answered Phil promptly.
"You can never do it."
"I'll show you what a circus man can do."
"Come along and unload your truck. Help me get some ladders out of the barn."
Wonderingly, Billy did as he was bid, and the driver, now grown interested, hitched his horses to the fence and followed them.
The silo was empty. Phil measured the distance to the top with his eyes.
"About forty feet I should say," he decided. "We shall have to do some climbing."
The ladders were far too short, but by splicing two of them together, they reached up to an opening in the silo some ten feet from the top.
Phil hunted about until he found a long plank; then setting the spliced ladders up inside the silo he mounted to the opening, carrying one end of a coil of rope with him. Upon reaching the opening he directed Billy to tie the other end of the rope to the plank. This being done, Phil hauled the board up to where he was sitting perched on the frame of the opening.
"I'd like to know what you're going to do?"
"If you will come up here I will show you."
"Not on your life," replied Billy promptly. "I know when I'm well off, and if you don't look out, Boss Snowden will get his wish."
"What wish was that?"
"That you might fall off a barn and break your neck."
The Circus Boy's merry laugh floated down to them as he worked in an effort to get the plank into position. By tying the rope to one end of the plank to support it he gradually worked the plank out through the opening, after a time managing to shove the end nearest to him under a beam.
"There, I'd like to see you turn a trick like that, BillyConley," he shouted.
"Iwouldn't," retorted Billy. "What's the next move?"
"In a minute. Watch me!"
The lad made a large loop in the rope in the shape of a slip knot. All preparations being made he boldly walked out on the plank which, secured at one end like a springboard, bent and trembled beneath his weight.
The men down below gasped.
The farmer, having changed his mind, had come out to watch the operation rather than visit the back farm. Two neighbors had by this time joined him.
"Who's the fellow up there?" asked one.
"He is a performer in a circus."
"A performer? Shucks! He's no more performer than I am."
"Watch him and perhaps you may change your mind," answered Billy, who had overheard the remark. "That boy is one of the finest circus performers in this country. Do you think he could stand out on that plank, more than thirty feet above the ground, if he were not a performer? Why, I wouldn't be up there for a million dollars, and you wouldn't, either."
"That's right," answered the farmer himself. "That beats all the circus performances I ever saw. What is the kid going to do?"
"I don't know," confessed Billy. "He knows and that's enough."
Phil, having tested the plank to his satisfaction and studied his balance, now cast his eyes up to the little cupola on top of the silo. Then he began slowly swinging the loop of the rope over his head, after the fashion of a cowboy about to make a cast.
They were at a loss to understand what he was trying to do, but every man there was sure in his own mind what Phil Forrest would do—fall off.
Suddenly he let go of the loop. It soared upward. Then they began to understand. He was trying to rope the cupola.
The rope fell short by about three feet, as nearly as he was able to judge.
"Oh, pshaw!" muttered Phil. "That was a clumsy throw. I would make just about as good a cowboy as I am a billposters. Well, here goes for another try."
He put all his strength into the throw this time.
The rope sped true, dropping as neatly over the peak of the cupola as if the thrower had been standing directly over the projection.
A cheer rose from the men below.
It died on their lips.
"He's falling!" they cried with one voice.
The farmers stood gaping. But Billy, with the quick instincts of a showman, darted beneath the plank hoping to catch and break the lad's fall.
Phil had leaned too far backward in making his cast. He had lost his balance and toppled over. Here his training in aerial work served him in good stead. As he felt himself going he turned quickly facing toward the outer end of the plank.
Like a flash both hands shot out. They closed about the end of the plank by a desperately narrow margin.
The plank bent until it seemed as if it must snap under his weight. Then it shot upward, carrying the boy with it, he kicking his feet together as he was lifted and laughing out of pure bravado.
Phil knew he was safe now. The drop had tested the plank, so that there was now slight danger of its breaking.
On the second rebound he swung himself to the upper side of it and stood up.
"Hurrah!" he shouted.
Billy was pale and trembling.
"If you do that again I'll have an attack of heart disease, Phil!" he called. "Now, what are you going to do? The rope is hanging seven or eight feet away from you."
"Hello, that's so. I hadn't observed that before. I should not have let go of it. Never mind, I'll get it unless something breaks. See here, Billy, you get from under there."
"Is the plank likely to fall?" asked Billy innocently.
"The plank? No. I am likely to take a tumble," answered Phil, with a short laugh. All at once he grew serious and still. "I think I can make it," he decided.
His resolution formed, the lad crouched low, so as not to throw so great a leverage on the plank that it would slip from under him when he leaped. He prepared for the spring.
"Don't do it!" howled Billy, now thoroughly frightened. "Don't you see what he's up to? He's going to jump off the plank and try to catch hold of the rope hanging from the cupola. He'll never make it. He'll miss it sure as he's a foot high. This is awful!"
"Don't bother me, Billy. Mr. Farmer, is that cupola strong enough to bear my weight on a sudden jolt?"
"It ought to hold a ton, dead weight."
"Then I guess it will hold me. Don't talk to me down there.Here goes!"
It seemed a foolhardy thing to do. To the average person it would have meant almost sure death. It must be remembered, however, that Phil Forrest was a circus performer, that he felt as thoroughly at home far above the ground as he did when standing directly on it.
He leaped out into the air, cleared the intervening space between the plank and the rope, his fingers closing over the latter with a sureness born of long experience.
His body swung far over toward the other side of the silo, settling down with a sickening jolt, as the loop over the cupola slipped down tight.
"Hooray!" cried Phil, twisting the rope about one leg and waving a hand to those below him.
They drew a long, relieved sigh. The farmers, one after the other, took off their hats and mopped their foreheads.
"Warm, isn't it?" grinned the owner of the silo.
"Now, pass up your brush and paste on this rope." Phil had brought a small rope with him for this very purpose.
Billy got busy at once and in a few minutes Phil had the brush and paste in his hands, with which he proceeded to smear as much of the side of the silo as was within reach. It will be remembered that he was hanging on the rope by one leg, around which the rope was twisted as only showmen know how to do.
"Now, the paper," called Phil.
This was passed up to him in the same way. In a few moments he had pasted on a great sheet, having first pulled himself up to the eaves to secure the top of the sheet just under them.
"Now that you have one sheet on, how are you going to get around to the other side to put others on?" demanded Conley.
"Oh, I'll show you. Be patient down there. I have got to change a leg; this one is getting numb."
"I should think it would," muttered Billy.
Phil changed legs, as he termed it; then, grasping the eaves with both hands, he pulled himself along, the slip-noose over the cupola turning about on its pivot without a hitch.
This done Phil called for more paper, which was put up in short order. Thus he continued with his work until he had put a plaster, as Bill Conley characterized it, all the way around the farmer's silo. It might have been seen nearly ten miles away in all directions. No such billing had ever before been done in that part of the country, nor perhaps anywhere else.
"There! I'd like to see the Ringlings, or Hagenbecks or Barnum and Bailey or any of the other big ones, beat that. They're welcome to cover this paper if they can, eh, Billy?" laughed Phil, pushing himself away from the side of the silo and leaning far back to get a better view of it. "I call that pretty fine. How about it?"
"The greatest ever," agreed Billy. His vocabulary was too limited to express his thoughts fully, but he did fairly well with what he had.
Having satisfied himself that his work was well done, Phil let himself down slowly, not using his hands at all, in doing so, but taking a spiral course downward.
"H-u-m-m, I'm a little stiff," he said when his feet touched the ground. "Am I a billposter or am I not a billposter, Billy?"
"You are the champeen of 'em all! I take off my hat to you."Which Conley did, then and there.
"I am afraid I shall not be able to get that rope down, sir," said Phil politely to the farmer. "I am sorry. I had not figured on that before. If you will be good enough to tell me how much the rope is worth I shall be glad to pay you for it. I can cut it off up near the little door there, so it will not look quite so bad. Shall I do it?"
"No. You needn't bother. As for paying for the rope I won't take a cent. I've had more fun than the price of a dozen ropes could buy. Why, young man, do you know I never seen anything in a circus that could touch the outside edge of the performance you've been giving us this afternoon? You boys had your dinners?"
"No," confessed the Circus Boy. "I guess we had forgotten all about eating."
"Then come right in the house. My wife will get you something, and I want to introduce her to a real live circus man—that's you."
"Thank you."
Phil's eyes were bright. He was happy in the accomplishment of a piece of work that was not done every day. In fact, this one was destined to go down in show history as a remarkable achievement.
They sat down to a fine dinner, and Phil entertained the family for an hour relating his experiences in the show world.
When the hour came for leaving, the farmer urged them to remain, but the men had work to do and a long drive ahead of them.
They drove away, Phil waving his hat and the farmer and his wife waving hat and apron respectively.
As the rig reached a hill, some three miles away, Phil and Billy turned to survey their work.
"Looks like a fire, doesn't it, Billy?"
"It sure does. It would call out the fire department if there was one here."
"And the best of it is, that posting will be up there when the show comes this way next season. It is a standing advertisement for the Great Sparling Shows. But I suppose Mr. Snowden would say it wasn't much of a job."
"Get those paste cans outside! Step lively there!"
"Say, you talk to me as if I were one of the hired help," objected Teddy, his face flushing.
"Well, that is exactly what you are. You'll soon learn that you are hired help if you remain on this car. I'll take all the freshness out of you. The flour is in the cellar."
"In the cellar?"
"That's what I said. Go down and get it out. You will require about a sack and a half for each can. That will be about right for a can of paste. Henry will show you how much bluestone to put in. But be careful of that boiler. I don't want the car blown up."
The manager strode away to his office, while Teddy, red and perspiring, went about his work. He was much more meek than usual, and this very fact, had the manager known him better, would have impressed Mr. Snowden as a suspicious circumstance.
Instead of the usual pink tights with spangled trunks, Teddy Tucker was now clad in a pair of blue jeans, held up by pieces of string reaching up over his shoulders. His was now a far different figure from that presented by him in the ring of the Sparling Shows.
After dumping the flour into the cans, in doing which Teddy took his time, he attached a hose pipe to the boiler, under the direction of Henry. Next he filled the cans with water and was then ready to turn on the steam to boil the paste.
Teddy was about to do this when Mr. Snowden appeared on the scene. He looked over the cans critically, but observing nothing that he could find fault with, he got a stick and began poking in the bottom of one of the cans, thinking he had discovered that more flour had been used than was necessary.
All at once Teddy, who was now inside the car, turned a full head of steam through the hose pipe. There being one hundred and forty pounds of steam on the boiler something happened.
The full force of the steam shot into the bottom of the can over which Mr. Snowden was bending. The contents of that can leaped up into the air, water, flour, bluestone and all, and for the next few seconds Manager Snowden was the central figure in the little drama. It rained uncooked paste for nearly half a minute. Such of it as had not smitten him squarely in the face went up in the air and then came down, showering on his head.
The force of the miniature explosion had bowled the manager over. Choking, sputtering, blinded for the moment by the stuff that had got into his eyes, he wallowed in the dust by the side of the car.
Teddy shut off the steam, went out on the platform and sat down.
"What happened?" he demanded innocently. Perhaps he did not know and perhaps he did.
Mr. Snowden did not answer, for the very good reason that he could not. His clothes were ruined.
"It looks like a storm," muttered the lad. In this he was not mistaken.
A happy thought came to him. Springing up he hurried into the car, and, drawing a pail of water from the tap, ran out with it. Mr. Snowden had just scrambled to his feet.
"This will do you good," said Teddy, dashing the pail of water over the manager's head. "That's the way you brought me back when I got pasted up last night."
The Circus Boy ducked back to the platform and sat down to await developments. They were not long in arriving. The instant Snowden got the flour out of his eyes sufficiently to enable him to see he began blinking in all directions.
Finally his eyes rested on Teddy Tucker, who was perched on a brake wheel observing the manager's discomfiture.
"You!" exploded the manager. Grabbing up the paddle used for the purpose of stirring paste he started for the Circus Boy.
Teddy promptly slid from the brake wheel and quickly got to the other side of the car. Snowden was after him with an angry roar, brandishing the paddle above his head.
"I knew it would blow up a storm pretty soon," muttered the lad, making a lively sprint as the manager came rushing around the end of the car. The chase was on, but Teddy Tucker was much more fleet of foot than was his pursuer, besides which his years of training in the circus ring had put him in condition for a long race.
Around and around the car they ran, the porter watching them, big-eyed and apprehensive, but Teddy kept his pursuer at a distance without great effort.
After a short time the lad varied his tactics. Increasing his speed, he leaped to the rear platform of the car, and sprang up on the platform railing. Here, grasping the edge, he pulled himself to the roof, where he sat down with his feet dangling over, grinning defiantly.
"Come down from there!" roared the manager. "I'll teach you to play your miserable pranks on me!" The roof of the car was beyond the ability of Mr. Snowden to reach.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know you had your nose stuck in the paste pot when I turned on the steam," murmured Teddy.
This served only to increase the anger of the man on the ground.
"You did it on purpose; you know you did!" roared Mr. Snowden."Come down, I tell you."
"You come up. It's fine up here!"
The manager, now angered past all control, uttered a growl. Hastily gathering up a handful of coal he began heaving the pieces at Teddy. But Tucker was prepared for just such an emergency.
>From his pockets he drew several chunks of coal, that he had picked up during his sprinting match around the car. He let these drive at Mr. Snowden, one after the other, not, however, throwing with sufficient force to do much damage. He did not wish to harm his superior, but he did want to drive him off.
Mr. Snowden soon got enough of the bombardment, for he was getting the worst of it all the time.
"I'll turn the hose on you!" he bellowed, making a dash for the interior of the car, where it was his intention to turn on the boiling hot water and steam.
"I guess it's time to leave," decided Teddy. Quickly hopping down he ran and hid behind a freight car a short distance from the show car. When Mr. Snowden came out, grasping the hissing hose, his victim was nowhere to be seen.
Uttering angry imprecations and threats the manager returned to his office, changed his clothes, then strode off up town to a hotel to get a bath, of which he was very much in need at the moment.
"I guess he will be cooled off by the time he gets back," decided Teddy, emerging from his hiding place. "I think I will go back to work. I must earn my money somehow. That man is crazy, but I have an idea he will be sane after I get through with him."
Teddy returned to his paste-making. Henry, the porter, was so frightened that he hardly dared talk to Teddy, for fear the manager might catch him doing so and vent his wrath on the Englishman.
As the Circus Boy had surmised Mr. Snowden returned after a two hours' absence, much chastened in spirit. He did not even look at Teddy Tucker, though the latter was watching the manager out of the corners of his eyes. Mr. Snowden went directly to his stateroom where he locked himself in.
"I guess the storm has blown over," decided young Tucker, grinning to himself. "But won't Phil raise an awful row when he hears about it!"
The lad quickly learned the paste-making trick, and after dinner he set to work in earnest. He found it hard work stirring the stiff paste, and it seemed as if Teddy got the greater part of it over his clothes and face. He was literally smeared with it, great splashes of it disfiguring his face and matting his hair.
When the men from the country routes drove in there was a howl of merriment. The lad did present a ludicrous sight.
"Hello, Spotted Horse!" shouted one of them.
"Hello yourself," growled Teddy, in none too enviable a frame of mind.
"That's the name. That's the name that fits our friend Tucker!" cried Missing Link. From that moment on, aboard Car Three, Teddy Tucker lost his own name and became Spotted Horse.
The men had no sooner unloaded their paste cans than the porter had told them of the trouble that morning between Teddy and the manager.
The men howled in their delight. Mr. Snowden, off in his little office, heard the sounds of merriment and knew that the laughter was at his expense. His face was black and distorted with rage.
"I'll show them they can't trifle with and insult me," he gritted.
At that moment he roared for Billy.
"The regular evening seance is about to begin," announced Billy, with a grimace, as he turned toward the office.
"Bring the cub, Forrest, along!" shouted the manager.
"Who?" called Conley.
"Forrest and that fool friend of his."
"He means Spotted Horse," suggested Rosie. "Run along,Spotted Horse. Got your war paint on?"
"I always have my war paint on," grinned Teddy, as he started toward the private office, following Conley and Phil Forrest.
The three ranged up before the car manager, who surveyed them with glowering face.
"What have you done today?" he demanded, fixing his gaze on Billy.
"We got up more than four hundred sheets of paper."
"Four hundred sheets!" groaned Snowden. "What have you fellows been doing? Sleeping by the roadside?"
"No, sir, we have been working, and Mr. Forrest here pulled off one of the cleverest hits that's ever been made. He plastered a silo that stands out like a sore thumb on the landscape, and which every farmer within ten or twenty miles about will go to look at."
"Humph, I don't believe it! What have the other men done?"
Conley reported as to the number of sheets that the men had posted, whereat the manager rose, pounded his desk and, in a towering rage, expressed his opinion of the tribe of billposters again.
Billy smiled sarcastically, in which he was joined by Teddy, but Phil's face was solemn. He was becoming rather tired of this constant abuse.
"If you have nothing to say to me, I will go back to my place in the car," spoke up Phil.
Snowden glared at him.
"Did I tell you to leave this room?"
"I believe you did not."
"Then stand there until I tell you to go!"
"Very well, sir."
"Conley, I have called you in here to be a witness to what I am about to say. Do you hear?"
Billy nodded.
"During the past two days I have been insulted and abused by those two young cubs there, until it has come to a point where I appear to be no longer manager of this car. Your men outside have laughed at my discomfiture—yes, sir, actually made sport of me."
"I think you are mistaken. I—"
"I amnot. I am never mistaken. This morning, this fellow Tucker not only defied me, but turned on the steam when I was examining a paste pot, and soaked me from head to foot. Then he ended up by throwing coal at me."
"Yes, and you started the row," retorted Teddy. "The idea of a big man like you pitching on to a boy. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"Stop it! I'll forget you are a boy if you goad me further.But I have had enough of it. I'll stand it no longer.Do you understand?"
No one replied to the question.
"This thing has gone far enough. Have you anything to say for yourself or your friend here, Forrest?"
"Yes, sir, I have."
"Say it."
"You are the most ill-tempered man it has ever been my experience to know."
"You're discharged! Both of you! Get off my car instantly!Do you hear me?"
"I could not very well help hearing you. I am sorry to disobey you, but we were ordered to Number Three by Mr. Sparling. We will try to do our duty, but we shall not leave this car until Mr. Sparling orders us to do so," answered Phil steadily.
Phil had triumphed, but he felt little satisfaction in having done so.
The manager had ordered the two boys from his office after the interview and the command to leave the car at once. But the lads had stayed on, and had gone about their duties, Phil working with all the force that was in him. He had even stirred Teddy to a realization of his duty and the latter had done very well, indeed.
A week had passed and the car was now in South Dakota. >From there they were to make a detour and drop down into Kansas, whence their course would be laid across the plains and on into the more mountainous country.
Mr. Snowden had studiously avoided the boys; in fact he had not spoken a word to them since the interview in the stateroom, but he had bombarded Mr. James Sparling with messages and demands that the Circus Boys be withdrawn from the car, renewing his threats to leave in case his demand was not complied with.
One bright Sunday morning the car rolled into the station at Aberdeen, South Dakota, and as it came to a stop a messenger boy boarded it with a message for Billy Conley.
Billy looked surprised, and even more so after he had perused the message itself. He quickly left the car, saying he would return after breakfast, but instead of going directly to breakfast, he proceeded to the best hotel in the place, where he called for a certain man, at the desk.
Billy spent some two hours with the man whom he had gone to see, after which he returned to the car. There was a twinkle in his eyes, as he looked at the Circus Boys, who were at that moment getting ready to go to church, a duty that Phil never neglected. He still remembered the time when he used to go to church on Sunday mornings, holding to his mother's hand. Never a Sunday passed that he did not think of it.
"Will you go with us, Billy?" he asked, noting the gaze of the assistant manager fixed upon him.
"Not this morning. I expect company," answered Billy with a grin.
Teddy eyed him suspiciously.
"Billy is up to some tricks this morning. I can see it in his eyes," announced Tucker shrewdly. "I guess I will stay and see what's going on."
"No; you will come with me," replied Phil decisively.So Teddy went.
Shortly after their departure a gentleman boarded the car, at the stateroom end, and walked boldly into the office.
The man was James Sparling, owner of the Sparling Combined Shows.
Mr. Snowden sprang up, surprise written all over his face.
"Why, Mr. Sparling!" he greeted the caller. "I did not expect you."
"No; my visit is something of a surprise, but it is time I came on. Where are the boys?"
"You mean young Forrest and Tucker?" asked the manager, his smile fading.
"Yes."
"The young cubs have gone to church. A likely pair they are!What did you mean by turning loose a bunch like that on me?"
There was a slight tightening of Mr. Sparling's lips.
"What seems to be the trouble with them?"
"Insubordination. They are the worst boys I ever came across in all my experience."
"Have you done as I requested, and helped them to learn the business?"
"I have not!"
"May I inquire why not?"
"My telegrams should be sufficient answer to that question. Both of them are hopeless. I want nothing to do with either of them. They have thoroughly disorganized this car, and each of them has assaulted me. Had I followed the promptings of my own inclinations I should have smashed their heads before this. But I considered their youth."
Mr. Sparling leaned back and laughed.
"I am glad you did not try it."
"Why?" demanded the manager suddenly.
"Because you would have got the thrashing of your life. Mr. Snowden, I am fully informed as to what has been going on in this car."