"Fix this boy up in some sort of a rig. I'm going to put him in
the Kazoo Band. Bring him back here when he is ready. Be
quick."

A long, yellow robe was thrown about the boy, a peaked cap thrust
on his head, after which a handful of powder was slapped on his
face and rubbed down with the flat of the clown's hand. The fine
dust got into the lad's nostrils and throat, causing him to
sneeze until the tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking his
makeup like a freshet through a plowed field.

"Good," laughed the clown. "That's what your face needs. You'd
make a good understudy for Chief Rain-In-The-Face. Now hustle
along."

Phil picked up the long skirts and ran full speed to the place
where the assistant had been standing. There he waited until the
assistant returned from a journey to some other part of the lot.

"That's right; you know how to obey orders," he nodded. "That's
a good clown makeup. Did Mr. Miaco put those streaks on your
face?"

"No, I sneezed them there," answered Phil, with a sheepish grin.

The assistant laughed heartily. Somehow, he had taken a sudden
liking to this boy.

"Do you live at home, Forrest?"