The widow was standing on her front door step with a dishtowel in
one hand.

In the excess of his excitement, Phil stood up, waving his horn
and yelling.

She heard him--as everybody else within a radius of a quarter of
a mile might have--and she recognized the voice. Mrs. Cahill
brandished the dishtowel excitedly.

"He's a fine boy," she glowed. "And he's having the first good
time he's had in five years."

The Widow Cahill was right. For the first time in all these
years, since the death of his parents, Phil Forrest was carefree
and perfectly happy.

The clowns on the wagon with him were uproariously funny. When
the wagon stopped now and then, one whom Phil recognized as the
head clown, Mr. Miaco, would spring to the edge of the rack and
make a stump speech in pantomime, accompanied by all the gestures
included in the pouring and drinking of a glass of water. So
humorous were the clown's antics that the spectators screamed
with laughter.

Suddenly the lad espied that which caused his own laughter to die
away, and for the moment he forgot to toot the fish horn. The
parade was passing his former home, and there, standing hunched
forward, leaning on his stick and glaring at the procession from
beneath bushy eyebrows, stood Phil's uncle, Abner Adams.