of Phil's yellow robe streaming from his hoofs.

The lad's body was half under the neck of the pony, but he was
clinging to the neck and the nose of the beast with desperate
courage.

"Get the boy out of there!" thundered Mr. Sparling, dashing up
and leaping from his pony. "Want to let him be killed?"

By this time others had ridden up, and some of the real horsemen
in the outfit sprang off and rushed to Phil Forrest's assistance.
Ropes were cast over the flying hoofs before the men thought it
wise to get near them. Then they hauled Phil out, very much the
worse for wear.

In the meantime Mr. Sparling's carriage had driven up and he was
helping the woman in.

"Is the boy hurt?" he called.

"No, I'm all right, thank you," answered Phil, smiling bravely,
though he was bruised from head to foot and his clothing hung in
tatters. His peaked clown's cap someone picked up in a field
over the fence and returned to him. That was about all that was
left of Phil Forrest's gaudy makeup, save the streaks on his
face, which by now had become blotches of white and red.

The clowns picked him up and boosted him to the wagon, jabbering
like a lot of sparrows perched on a telephone wire.