The showman was standing in front of his office tent, that
afternoon, at about three o'clock, his broad-brimmed slouch hat
pulled well down over his eyes, his hands thrust deep in his
trousers pockets.
Off under the big top the band was playing a lively tune,
and the side-show people were out in front sunning themselves,
all discussing Phil Forrest's mysterious disappearance.
After a short time, Mr. Sparling espied a young man in uniform
coming on the lot. He did not pay much attention to the
stranger, thinking the fellow was a police officer or something
of the sort.
As the young man drew nearer, however, the showman thought he
noted something familiar in the springy step and the poise of
the body.
"Now, who is that?" he muttered. "Somehow I seem to know
that youngster."
Others about the main entrance were also looking in his direction
about that time. Still no one seemed to recognize the young man.
All at once the showman tilted up the rim of his hat and gazed
more keenly.
"Phil!" he shouted, casting the hat aside and running forward
with outstretched arms.
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