"Huh!" grunted the showman, stepping up beside Phil and placing a
hand on the boy's heart.
"Huh!"
"He's alive, isn't he, Mr. Sparling?"
"Yes. Anybody gone for the doctor?"
"Miaco has."
"Wonder any of you had sense enough to think of that. I
congratulate you. Somebody will suffer when I find out who was
responsible for hanging that boy's life on a rotten old piece of
wire. I presume it's been kicking around this outfit for the
last seven years."
"Here comes the doc," announced a voice.
There was a tense silence in the dressing tent, broken only by
the patter of the rain drops on the canvas roof, while the show's
surgeon was making his examination.
"Well, well! What about it?" demanded Mr. Sparling impatiently.
The surgeon did not answer at once. His calm, professional
demeanor was not to be disturbed by the blustering but kind-
hearted showman, and the showman, knowing this from past
experience, relapsed into silence until such time as the surgeon
should conclude to answer him.
"Did he fall on his head?" he questioned, looking up, at the same
time running his fingers over Phil's dark-brown hair.
"Looks that way, doesn't it?"
"I should say so.
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