"How soon will the performance be over?" inquired Phil,
approaching the gateman.

"Ten minutes now."

"Then, I guess I won't go in. I promised to meet Teddy over by
the ticket wagon anyway."

But Phil could not stand still. Thrusting his hands in his
pockets he began pacing back and forth, pondering deeply. He did
not observe the shrewd eyes of Mr. Sparling fixed upon him from
behind the flap of the little tent.

"At last, at last!" mused Phil. "I'm a real live showman at
last, but what kind of a showman I don't know. Probably they'll
make me help put up the tents and take them down. But, I don't
care. I'll do anything. And think of the money I'll earn. Ten
dollars a week!" he exclaimed, pausing and glancing up at the
fluttering flags waving from center and quarter poles. "Why,
it's a fortune! I shall be able to save most all of it, too. Oh,
I'm so happy!"

"They're coming out," called the gateman to him.

"Thank you."

Phil's face was full of repressed excitement when Teddy came
slouching up to him.