The Circus Boys on the Plains : or, the Young Advance Agents Ahead of the Show

The voice of James Sparling rose above even the roar of the storm. A uniformed attendant stepped into the little office tent occupied by the owner of the Great Sparling Combined Shows. Shaking the water from his dripping cap, he brought a hand to his forehead in precise military salute. 'How's the storm coming, Bates?' demanded the showman, with an amused twinkle in his eyes as he noted the bedraggled condition of his messenger. The gale was roaring over the circus lot, momentarily threatening to wrench the billowing circus tents from their fastenings, lift them high in the air preparatory to distributing them over the surrounding country. Guy ropes were straining at their anchorages, center and quarter poles were beating a nervous tattoo on the sodden turf. The rain was driving over the circus lot in blinding sheets. The night was not ideal for a circus performance. However, the show men uttered no protest, going about their business as methodically as if the air were warm and balmy, the moon and stars shining down over the scene complacently.