"You see," said the clown, nodding his head at Teddy.

"No, I hear," grumbled Teddy. "What's it all about?"

"Don't ask me. I don't know. I'm not running this show."

"Lucky for the show that you aren't," muttered the Circus Boy.

"What's that?"

"I was just thinking out loud, I guess."

"It's a bad habit. Don't do it when I'm around. All hoodoos talk to themselves and in their sleep."

The show was started off with a rush, the Grand Entry having been cut out again, as is frequently the case with a show where there is a long run ahead, or a storm is expected. That night those in the dressing tent could only surmise the reason. The hyena's warning was the only thing to guide the performers in their search for a reason for the haste. But they took the situation philosophically, as they always had, and prepared for the performance as usual.

The performance had gotten along well toward the end, and without the slightest interruption. All hands were beginning to feel a certain sense of relief, when the shrill blasts of the boss canvasman's emergency whistle were heard outside the big top.

Phil had just completed his trapeze act and was dropping into the net when the whistle sounded.

He glanced up and made a signal to the others in the air.

They dropped, one by one, to the net and swung themselves to the ground, where they stood awaiting the completion of the piece that the band was playing.

"Wind, isn't it?" questioned Mr. Prentice.

Phil nodded.

He was listening intently. His keen ears caught a distant roar that caused him to gaze apprehensively aloft.

"I am afraid we are going to have trouble," he said.

"It has been in the air all the evening," was the low answer.

"Wonder if they have the menagerie tent out of the way?"

It was being taken down at that moment, the elephants having been removed to the train, as had part of the cages.

All at once there was a roar that sent the blood from the faces of the spectators. The boss canvasman's whistle trilled excitedly.

"There go the dressing tents," said Phil calmly as a ripping and rending was heard off by the paddock. "I hope it hasn't taken my trunk with it. Glad I locked the trunk before coming into the ring."

The band stopped playing suddenly. The tent was in absolute silence.

"It's a cyclone!" shouted a voice among the spectators.

A murmur ran over the a.s.semblage. In a moment they would be in a mad rush, trampling each other under foot in their efforts to escape.

Phil bounded toward the band.

"Play! Play!" he shouted. "They'll stampede if you don't.

Play, I tell you!"

The bandmaster waved his baton and the music of the band drowned out the mutterings of the storm for the moment.

Suddenly the roaring without grew louder. Ropes were creaking, center and quarter poles lifting themselves a few inches from the ground, dangerously.

"It's blowing end on," muttered Phil, running full speed down the concourse in his ring costume.

"Keep your seats!" he shouted. "There may be no danger. If the tent should go down you will be safer where you are. Keep your seats, everybody."

Phil dashed on, shouting his warning until he had gotten halfway around the tent. Mr. Prentice had taken up the lad's cry on the other side.

Then the blow fell.

The big top bent under the sweep of the gale until the center poles were leaning far over to the north. Had the wind not struck the tent on the end it must have gone down under the first blast. As it was, canvas, rope and pole were holding, but every st.i.tch of canvas and every pole was trembling under its burden.

"Sit steady, everybody! We may be able to weather it."

Phil saw that, if the people were to run into the arena and the tent should fall, many must be crushed under the center and quarter poles.

Up and down he ran shouting words of encouragement, and he was thus engaged when Mr. Sparling worked his way in from the pad room, as the open enclosure between the two dressing tents is called. Phil had picked up the ringmaster's whip and was cracking it to attract the attention of the people to what he was trying to tell them.

Somehow, many seemed to gain confidence from this plucky, slender lad clad in silk tights, who was rushing up and down as cool and collected as if three thousand persons were not in deadly peril.

Nothing but Phil Forrest's coolness saved many from death that night.

A mighty roar suddenly drew every eye in the tent to the south end where the wind was pressing against the canvas with increasing force.

Phil stood near the entrance, the flap of which had been quickly laced and staked down when the canvasmen saw the gale coming upon them.

He turned quickly, for the roar had seemed to be almost at his side. What he saw drew an exclamation from Phil that, at other times, might have been humorous. There was no humor in it now.

"Gracious!" exclaimed the lad.

There, within twenty feet of him stood a lion, a huge, powerful beast, with head up, the hair standing straight along its back, the mane rippling in the breeze.

"It's Wallace," breathed the lad, almost unable to believe his eyes. The biggest lion in captivity, somehow in the excitement had managed to escape from his cage.

"Now there'll be a panic for sure! They've seen him!"

"Sit still and keep still! He won't hurt you!" shouted Phil.

"Now, you get out of here!" commanded Phil, starting toward Wallace and cracking the ringmaster's whip in the animal's face.

Just for the briefest part of a second did Wallace give way, then with a terrific roar, he bounded clear over the Circus Boy's head, bowling Phil over as he leaped, and on down to the center of the arena.

Phil had not been hurt. He was up and after the dangerous beast in a twinkling. The audience saw what he was trying to do.

"Keep away from him!" bellowed Mr. Sparling.

"Throw a net over him!" shouted Phil.