Mr. Miaco, himself an all around acrobat, was on hand to watch their work and to offer suggestions. He had taken a keen interest in Phil Forrest, seeing in the lad the making of a high-cla.s.s circus performer.

The rings were let down to within about ten feet of the sawdust ring, and one at a time the two lads were hoisted by the clown until their fingers grasped the iron rings.

With several violent movements of their bodies they curled their feet up, slipping them through the rings, first having grasped the ropes above the rings.

"That was well done. Quite professional," nodded the clown.

"Take hold of this rope and I will swing you. If it makes you dizzy, tell me."

"Don't worry; it won't," laughed Phil.

"Give me a shove, too," urged Teddy.

"In a minute."

Mr. Miaco began swinging Phil backwards and forwards, his speed ever increasing, and as he went higher and higher, Phil let himself down, fastening his hands on the rings that he might a.s.sist in the swinging.

"Now, see if you can get back in the rings with your legs."

"That's easy," answered Phil, his breath coming sharp and fast, for he never had taken such a long sweep in the rings before.

The feat was not quite so easy as he had imagined. Phil made three attempts before succeeding. But he mastered it and came up smiling.

"Good," cried the clown, clapping his hands approvingly.

"Give me another swing. I want to try something else."

Having gained sufficient momentum, the lad, after reaching the point where the rings would start on their backward flight, permitted his legs to slip through the rings, catching them with his feet.

He swept back, head and arms hanging down, as skillfully as if he had been doing that very thing right along.

"You'll do," emphasized the clown. "You will need to put a little more finish in your work. I'll give you a lesson in that next time."

Teddy, not to be outdone, went through the same exhibition, though not quite with the same speed that Phil had shown.

It being the hour when the performers always gathered in the big top to practice and play, many of them stood about watching the boys work. They nodded their heads approvingly when Phil finished and swung himself to the ground.

Teddy, on his part, overrated his ability when it came to hanging by his feet.

"Look out!" warned half a dozen performers at once.

He had not turned his left foot into the position where it would catch and hold in the ring. Their trained eyes had noted this omission instantly.

The foot, of course, failed to catch, and Teddy uttered a howl when he found himself falling. His fall, however, was checked by a sharp jolt. The right foot had caught properly. As he swept past the laughing performers he was dangling in the air like a huge spider, both hands and one foot clawing the air in a desperate manner.

There was nothing they could do to liberate him from his uncomfortable position until the momentum of his swing had lessened sufficiently to enable them to catch him.

"Hold your right steady!" cautioned Miaco. "If you twist it you'll take a beauty tumble."

Teddy hadn't thought of that before. Had Miaco known the lad better he would not have made the mistake of giving that advice.

Teddy promptly turned his foot.

He shot from the flying rings as if he had been fired from a cannon.

Phil tried to catch him, but stumbled and fell over a rope, while Teddy shot over his head, landing on and diving head first into a pile of straw that had just been brought in to bed down the tent for the evening performance.

Nothing of Teddy save his feet was visible.

They hauled him out by those selfsame feet, and, after disentangling him from the straws that clung to him, were relieved to find that he had not been hurt in the least.

"I guess we shall have to put a net under you. Lucky for you that that pile of straw happened to get in your way. Do you know what would have happened to you had it not been?" demanded Mr.

Miaco.

"I--I guess I'd have made a hit," decided Teddy wisely.

"I guess there is no doubt about that."

The performers roared.

"I'm going to try it again."

"No; you've done enough for one day. You won't be able to hold up the coffeepot tomorrow morning if you do much more."

"Do you think we will be able to accomplish anything on the flying rings, Mr. Miaco?" asked Phil after they had returned to the dressing tent.

"There is no doubt of it. Were I in your place I should take an hour's work on them every day. Besides building you up generally, it will make you surer and better able to handle yourself. Then, again, you never know what minute you may be able to increase your income. People in this business often profit by others' misfortunes," added the clown significantly.

"I would prefer not to profit that way," answered Phil.

"You would rather do it by your own efforts?"

"Yes."

"It all amounts to the same thing. You are liable to be put out any minute yourself, then somebody else will get your job, if you are a performer of importance to the show."

"You mean if my act is?"

"That's what I mean."

The old clown and the enthusiastic young showman talked in the dressing tent until it was time for each to begin making up for the evening performance.

The dressing tent was the real home of the performers. They knew no other. It was there that they unpacked their trunks--there that during their brief stay they pinned up against the canvas walls the pictures of their loved ones, many of whom were far across the sea. A bit of ribbon here, a faded flower drawn from the recess of a trunk full of silk and spangles, told of the tender hearts that were beating beneath those iron-muscled b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and that they were as much human beings as their brothers in other walks of life.

Much of this Phil understood in a vague way as he watched them from day to day. He was beginning to like these big-hearted, big-muscled fellows, though there were those among them who were not desirable as friends.

"I guess it's just the same as it is at home," decided Phil.

"Some of the folks are worthwhile, and others are not."

He had summed it up.