while Mr. Sparling methodically gathered up the papers he had
been studying, stuffing them in an inside coat pocket.

"A fine, mellow night," he said to himself, peering out through
the flap as he drew on his oilskins. Pulling the brim of his
sombrero down over his eyes he stalked out into the storm.

A quick glance up into the skies told his experienced eyes that
the worst of the storm had passed, and that there was now little
danger of a blow-down that night. He started off across the
circus lot, splashing through the mud and water, bound for his
comfortable private car that lay on a siding about half a mile
from the circus grounds.

He found a scene of bustle and excitement in the railroad yards,
where a small army of men were rushing the work of loading the
menagerie wagons on the first section, for the train was going
out in three sections that night.

"It is a peculiar fact," muttered the showman, "that the worse
the weather is, the louder the men seem called upon to yell.
However, if yelling makes them feel any the less wet, I don't
know why I should object."

The showman quickly changed his wet clothes and settled himself
at the desk in his cosy office on board the private car. He had
been there something like half an hour when the buzzing of an
electric bell called the porter to the door of the car.

A moment later and Phil Forrest appeared at the door of the car.