Sparling's carriage had driven up and he was
helping the woman in.
"Is the boy hurt?" he called.
"No, I'm all right, thank you," answered Phil, smiling bravely,
though he was bruised from head to foot and his clothing hung in
tatters. His peaked clown's cap someone picked up in a field
over the fence and returned to him. That was about all that was
left of Phil Forrest's gaudy makeup, save the streaks on his
face, which by now had become blotches of white and red.
The clowns picked him up and boosted him to the wagon, jabbering
like a lot of sparrows perched on a telephone wire.
"See you later!" shouted the voice of Mr. Sparling as he drove
rapidly away.
Phil found his horn, and despite his aches and pains he began
blowing it lustily. The story of his brave rescue had gone on
ahead, however, and as the clowns' wagon moved on it was greeted
by tremendous applause.
The onlookers had no difficulty in picking out the boy who had
saved the woman's life, and somehow the word had been passed
around as to his identity.
"Hooray for Phil Forrest!" shouted the multitude.
Phil flushed under the coating of powder and paint, and sought to
crouch down in the wagon out of sight.
Pages:
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75