However, between the storm and the escaped lion, none seemed to have his wits about him sufficiently to know what was best to do.

Had the showmen acted promptly when Phil called, they might have been able to capture the beast then and there.

Seeing that they were not going to do so, and that the lion was walking slowly toward the reserved seats, Phil sprang in front of the dangerous brute to head him off.

The occupants of the reserved seats were standing up. The panic might break at any minute.

"Sit down!" came the command, in a stern, boyish voice.

Phil faced the escaped lion, starting toward it with a threatening motion of the whip.

"Are you ever going to get a net?"

"Get a net!" thundered Mr. Sparling. "Get away from him, Phil!"

Instead of doing so, the Circus Boy stepped closer to the beast.

No one made the slightest move to capture the beast, as Phil realized might easily be done now, if only a few had the presence of mind to attempt it.

Crack!

The ringmaster's whip in Phil's hands snapped and the leather lash bit deep into the nose of Wallace.

With a roar that sounded louder than that of the storm outside the lion took a quick step forward, only to get the lash on his nose again.

Suddenly he turned about and in long, curving bounds headed for the lower end of the tent. Mr. Sparling sprang to one side, knowing full well that it would be better to lose the lion than to stir up the audience more than they already were stirred.

Phil was in full pursuit, cracking his whip at every jump.

Wallace leaped through the open flap at the lower end of the tent and disappeared in the night.

Just as he did so there came a sound different from anything that had preceded it. A series of reports followed one another until it sounded as if a battery of small cannon were being fired, together with a ripping and tearing and rending that sent every spectator in the big tent, to his feet yelling and shouting.

"The tent is coming down! The tent is coming down!"

Women fainted and men began fighting to get down into the arena.

"Stay where you are!" shouted Phil. Then the Circus Boy did a bold act. Running along in front of the seats he let drive the lash of his long whip full into the faces of the struggling people. The sting of the lash brought many of them to their senses. Then they too turned to help hold the others back.

With a wrench, the center poles were lifted several feet up into the air.

"Look out for the quarter poles! Keep back or you'll be killed!"

shouted Phil.

"Keep back! Keep back!" bellowed Mr. Sparling.

And now the quarter poles--the poles that stand leaning toward the center of the arena, just in front of the lower row of seats--began to fall, crashing inward, forced to the north.

The center poles snapped like pipe stems, pieces of them being hurled half the length of the tent.

Down came the canvas, extinguishing the lights and leaving the place in deep darkness. The people were fairly beside themselves with fright. But still that boyish voice was heard above the uproar:

"Sit still! Sit still!"

The whole ma.s.s of canvas collapsed and went rolling northward like a sail suddenly ripped from the yards of a ship.

The last mighty blow of the storm had been more than canvas and painted poles could stand.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE LION HUNT

For a moment there was silence. Then the people began shouting.

"Bring lights, men!" thundered the owner of the show.

Being so near the outer edges of the tent, the people had escaped almost without injury. Many had been bruised as the canvas swept over them, knocking them flat and some falling all the way through between the seats to the ground, where they were in little danger.

"Wait till the lights come! Phil! Phil!"

Phil Forrest did not answer. He had been knocked clear into the center of the arena by a falling quarter pole, and stunned.

The Circus Boy's head was pretty hard, however, and no more than a minute had pa.s.sed before he was at work digging his way out of the wreck.

"Phillip!"

"Here!"

"Thank heaven," muttered the showman. "I was afraid he had been killed. Are you all right?" Mr. Sparling made his way in Phil's direction.

"Yes. How--how many were killed?"

"I hope none," replied Mr. Sparling. "As soon as the lights are on and all this stuff hauled out of the way we shall know."

Most of the canvas had been blown from the circus arena proper so that little was left there save the seats, a portion of the bandstand, the wrecks of the ruined poles and circus properties, together with some of the side walls, which still were standing.

By this time the tornado, for such it had developed into, had pa.s.sed entirely and the moon came out, shining down into the darkened circus arena, lighting it up brightly.

About that time torches were brought. The people had rushed down from the seats as soon as the big top had blown away.

"I want all who have been injured to wait until I can see them,"

shouted Mr. Sparling. "Many of you owe your lives to this young man. Had you started when the blow came many of you would have been killed. Has anyone been seriously hurt?"

A chorus of "no's" echoed from all sides.

The showman breathed a sigh of relief. A bare half dozen had to be helped down from the seats, where they had been struck by flying debris, but beyond that no one obeyed Mr. Sparling's request to remain.

The men had run quickly along under the seats to see if by any chance injured persons had fallen through. They helped a few out and these walked hurriedly away, bent on getting off the circus lot as quickly as possible after their exciting experiences.

"No one killed, Phil."