In the dressing tent another scene was being enacted. On two
drawn-up trunks, over which had been thrown a couple of horse
blankets, they had laid the slender, red-clad figure of Phil
Forrest.
The boy's pale face appeared even more ashen than it really was
under the flickering glare of the gasoline torches. His head had
been propped up on a saddle, while about him stood a half circle
of solemn-faced performers in various stages of undress and
makeup.
"Is he badly hurt?" asked one.
"Can't say. Miaco has gone for the doc. We'll know pretty soon.
That was a dandy tumble he took."
"How did it happen?"
"Wire broke. You can't put no faith on a wire with a kink in it.
I nearly got my light put out, out in St. Joe, Missouri, by a
trick like that. No more swinging wire for me. Guess the kid,
if he pulls out of this, will want to hang on to a rope after
this. He will if he's wise."
"What's this? What's this?" roared Mr. Sparling, who, having
heard of the accident, came rushing into the tent. "Who's hurt?"
"The kid," informed someone.
"What kid? Can't you fellows talk? Oh, it's Forrest, is it? How
did it happen?"
One of the performers who had witnessed the accident related what
he had observed.
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