Part 48 (2/2)

Supper had been eaten, and most of the performers were out on the lot, enjoying the balmy air of the early evening for the few moments left to them before they would be obliged to repair to the dressing tent to make ready for the evening performance.

Phil decided to go in, after finis.h.i.+ng a talk with Mr. Sparling in the latter's private tent. As the lad pa.s.sed through the menagerie tent the attendants were lighting the gasoline lamps there and hauling them up the center poles.

Under the big top, however, one could not see half its length.

The lights there would not be turned on for fifteen or twenty minutes yet. Not a person was in sight as Phil entered the tent, making his way slowly down the concourse. He paused half-way down, seating himself on a grandstand chair in one of the arena boxes, where he thought over the latest exploit of the show's enemy.

”This time they were not after me, but after the outfit itself,”

he muttered. ”That is the time the fellow showed his hand, and it gives me an idea. I--h.e.l.lo, there is someone who acts as if he did not wish to be seen.”

Phil sat still and watched. Someone had slipped in under the tent down at the other end, directly across the arena from where the bandstand was located. It had now become so dark in the tent that Phil could not make out the fellow's features. In fact, the man was a mere shadow.

”I wonder what he is doing there?”

Then a thought struck Phil Forrest like a blow.

”That's where they put the big net between performances.”

Phil crept down into the arena and made his way back to the entrance to the menagerie tent, where he quickly slipped out into the open and ran down along the outside of the big top at his best speed. As he drew near the spot where he had seen the man, he moved cautiously.

Finally Phil dropped down and peered under the tent. He was less than ten feet from where the fellow was at work. The Circus Boy could catch a ”rip, rip” now and then.

”The fiend is cutting the net,” he muttered. ”I wonder who he is. Ah, I know him now! He is one of the tent men. I never thought he was in this thing. I must catch him--I must make the attempt, for he may get away. I don't even know the fellow's name, nor do I understand his enmity toward the show or myself.”

Phil wriggled in under the tent, now, not fearing discovery, for inside the tent, it was quite dark. Slowly raising himself to his feet, he edged nearer, step by step, to where the man was at work. The man had partly spread the net out by this time, to make sure that he was cutting it in the right place so that it would give way beneath the weight of the performer unfortunate enough to drop into it first.

”The fiend!” repeated Phil, clenching his fists. ”I'm glad I am the one to discover him. Mr. Man, I have a score to settle with you and I'm going to begin the settling up now.”

Phil crouched low. He was now only a few feet from the stooping figure.

All at once the boy threw himself forward. He landed on the man, forcing him to the ground. As he struck, Phil raised his voice in the showmen's rallying cry.

”_Hey, Rube!_” he shouted in a sing-song voice that was heard in the dressing tents and even out in the menagerie tent.

His first care, then, was to pinion the man so he could not use his hands, for the Circus Boy knew that his captive had a knife in one hand.

Men came running from all directions, Mr. Sparling among the number, for he had been in the menagerie tent when the cry reached him, and feared some fresh trouble was at hand.

”What is it? Where is it?” roared the showman.

”Here, here! Bring lights. Bring--”

The man beneath him began to struggle. In fact the fellow staggered to his feet, the boy being too light to hold him down.

Phil grabbed him about the waist, pinioning the man's arms to his sides. Then began a desperate struggle, during which the combatants fell to the ground, rolling over and over in their fierce battle.

”It's Phil Forrest!” shouted the owner.

<script>