Sparling
hurrying past wrapped in oilskins and slouch hat.
"This show gives a parade and two performances a day, rain,
shine, snow or earthquake," was the emphatic answer. "Come over
to my tent in half an hour. I have something to say to you."
Phil ran across to Mr. Sparling's tent at the expiration of half
an hour, but he was ahead of time evidently, for the showman was
not there. Nice dry straw had been piled on the ground in the
little tent to take up the moisture, giving it a cosy,
comfortable look inside.
"This wouldn't be a half bad place to sleep," decided Phil,
looking about him. "I don't suppose we ever play the same town
two nights in succession. I must find out."
Mr. Sparling bustled in at this point, stripping off his wet
oilskins and hanging them on a hook on the tent pole at the
further end.
"Where'd you sleep?"
"In wagon No. 10."
"Get wet?"
"Very."
"Humph!"
"We dried out in the cook tent when we got in. It might have
been worse."
"Easily satisfied, aren't you?"
"I don't know about that. I expect to meet with some
disagreeable experiences."
"You won't be disappointed. You'll get all that's coming to you.
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