While he was still sobbing away at a most furious rate he heard
a voice close at his elbow, and, looking up, saw the thinnest man
he had ever seen in all his life. The man had flesh colored tights
on, and a spangled red velvet garment -- that was neither pants,
because there were no legs to it, nor a coat, because it did not
come above his waist -- made up the remainder of his costume.

Because he was so wonderfully thin, because of the costume which
he wore, and because of a highly colored painting which was hanging
in front of one of the small tents, Toby knew that the Living Skeleton
was before him, and his big brown eyes opened all the wider as he
gazed at him.

"What is the matter, little fellow?" asked the man, in a kindly
tone. "What makes you cry so? Has Job been up to his old tricks
again?"

"I don't know what his old tricks are --" and Toby sobbed, the
tears coming again because of the sympathy which this man's voice
expressed for him -- "but I know that he's a mean, ugly thing --
that's what I know; an' if I could only get back to Uncle Dan'l,
there hain't elephants enough in all the circuses in the world to
pull me away again."

"Oh, you run away from home, did you?"

"Yes, I did," sobbed Toby, "an' there hain't any boy in any Sunday
School book that ever I read that was half so sorry he'd been bad
as I am. It's awful; an' now I can't have any supper, 'cause I
stopped to talk with Mr. Stubbs."