"Now, the paper," called Phil.

This was pa.s.sed up to him in the same way. In a few moments he had pasted on a great sheet, having first pulled himself up to the eaves to secure the top of the sheet just under them.

"Now that you have one sheet on, how are you going to get around to the other side to put others on?" demanded Conley.

"Oh, I'll show you. Be patient down there. I have got to change a leg; this one is getting numb."

"I should think it would," muttered Billy.

Phil changed legs, as he termed it; then, grasping the eaves with both hands, he pulled himself along, the slip-noose over the cupola turning about on its pivot without a hitch.

This done Phil called for more paper, which was put up in short order. Thus he continued with his work until he had put a plaster, as Bill Conley characterized it, all the way around the farmer's silo. It might have been seen nearly ten miles away in all directions. No such billing had ever before been done in that part of the country, nor perhaps anywhere else.

"There! I'd like to see the Ringlings, or Hagenbecks or Barnum and Bailey or any of the other big ones, beat that.

They're welcome to cover this paper if they can, eh, Billy?"

laughed Phil, pushing himself away from the side of the silo and leaning far back to get a better view of it. "I call that pretty fine. How about it?"

"The greatest ever," agreed Billy. His vocabulary was too limited to express his thoughts fully, but he did fairly well with what he had.

Having satisfied himself that his work was well done, Phil let himself down slowly, not using his hands at all, in doing so, but taking a spiral course downward.

"H-u-m-m, I'm a little stiff," he said when his feet touched the ground. "Am I a billposter or am I not a billposter, Billy?"

"You are the champeen of 'em all! I take off my hat to you."

Which Conley did, then and there.

"I am afraid I shall not be able to get that rope down, sir,"

said Phil politely to the farmer. "I am sorry. I had not figured on that before. If you will be good enough to tell me how much the rope is worth I shall be glad to pay you for it.

I can cut it off up near the little door there, so it will not look quite so bad. Shall I do it?"

"No. You needn't bother. As for paying for the rope I won't take a cent. I've had more fun than the price of a dozen ropes could buy. Why, young man, do you know I never seen anything in a circus that could touch the outside edge of the performance you've been giving us this afternoon? You boys had your dinners?"

"No," confessed the Circus Boy. "I guess we had forgotten all about eating."

"Then come right in the house. My wife will get you something, and I want to introduce her to a real live circus man--that's you."

"Thank you."

Phil's eyes were bright. He was happy in the accomplishment of a piece of work that was not done every day. In fact, this one was destined to go down in show history as a remarkable achievement.

They sat down to a fine dinner, and Phil entertained the family for an hour relating his experiences in the show world.

When the hour came for leaving, the farmer urged them to remain, but the men had work to do and a long drive ahead of them.

They drove away, Phil waving his hat and the farmer and his wife waving hat and ap.r.o.n respectively.

As the rig reached a hill, some three miles away, Phil and Billy turned to survey their work.

"Looks like a fire, doesn't it, Billy?"

"It sure does. It would call out the fire department if there was one here."

"And the best of it is, that posting will be up there when the show comes this way next season. It is a standing advertis.e.m.e.nt for the Great Sparling Shows. But I suppose Mr. Snowden would say it wasn't much of a job."

CHAPTER IX

TEDDY GETS INTO TROUBLE

"Get those paste cans outside! Step lively there!"

"Say, you talk to me as if I were one of the hired help,"

objected Teddy, his face flushing.

"Well, that is exactly what you are. You'll soon learn that you are hired help if you remain on this car. I'll take all the freshness out of you. The flour is in the cellar."

"In the cellar?"

"That's what I said. Go down and get it out. You will require about a sack and a half for each can. That will be about right for a can of paste. Henry will show you how much bluestone to put in. But be careful of that boiler. I don't want the car blown up."

The manager strode away to his office, while Teddy, red and perspiring, went about his work. He was much more meek than usual, and this very fact, had the manager known him better, would have impressed Mr. Snowden as a suspicious circ.u.mstance.

Instead of the usual pink tights with spangled trunks, Teddy Tucker was now clad in a pair of blue jeans, held up by pieces of string reaching up over his shoulders. His was now a far different figure from that presented by him in the ring of the Sparling Shows.

After dumping the flour into the cans, in doing which Teddy took his time, he attached a hose pipe to the boiler, under the direction of Henry. Next he filled the cans with water and was then ready to turn on the steam to boil the paste.

Teddy was about to do this when Mr. Snowden appeared on the scene. He looked over the cans critically, but observing nothing that he could find fault with, he got a stick and began poking in the bottom of one of the cans, thinking he had discovered that more flour had been used than was necessary.

All at once Teddy, who was now inside the car, turned a full head of steam through the hose pipe. There being one hundred and forty pounds of steam on the boiler something happened.

The full force of the steam shot into the bottom of the can over which Mr. Snowden was bending. The contents of that can leaped up into the air, water, flour, bluestone and all, and for the next few seconds Manager Snowden was the central figure in the little drama. It rained uncooked paste for nearly half a minute.

Such of it as had not smitten him squarely in the face went up in the air and then came down, showering on his head.

The force of the miniature explosion had bowled the manager over.

Choking, sputtering, blinded for the moment by the stuff that had got into his eyes, he wallowed in the dust by the side of the car.

Teddy shut off the steam, went out on the platform and sat down.

"What happened?" he demanded innocently. Perhaps he did not know and perhaps he did.

Mr. Snowden did not answer, for the very good reason that he could not. His clothes were ruined.

"It looks like a storm," muttered the lad. In this he was not mistaken.

A happy thought came to him. Springing up he hurried into the car, and, drawing a pail of water from the tap, ran out with it.

Mr. Snowden had just scrambled to his feet.

"This will do you good," said Teddy, dashing the pail of water over the manager's head. "That's the way you brought me back when I got pasted up last night."