As the wagons moved along he saw many people whom he knew. As a
matter of fact, Phil knew everyone in the village, but there were
hundreds of people who had driven in from the farms whom he did
not know. Nor did anyone appear to recognize him.
"If they only knew, wouldn't they be surprised?" chuckled the
lad. "Hello, there's Mrs. Cahill."
The widow was standing on her front door step with a dishtowel in
one hand.
In the excess of his excitement, Phil stood up, waving his horn
and yelling.
She heard him--as everybody else within a radius of a quarter of
a mile might have--and she recognized the voice. Mrs. Cahill
brandished the dishtowel excitedly.
"He's a fine boy," she glowed. "And he's having the first good
time he's had in five years."
The Widow Cahill was right. For the first time in all these
years, since the death of his parents, Phil Forrest was carefree
and perfectly happy.
The clowns on the wagon with him were uproariously funny. When
the wagon stopped now and then, one whom Phil recognized as the
head clown, Mr. Miaco, would spring to the edge of the rack and
make a stump speech in pantomime, accompanied by all the gestures
included in the pouring and drinking of a glass of water.
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