'You are a silly, you are; fancy wasting a brand-new shilling on a circus kid!'

'Nonsense!' was the elder boy's answer; 'first you nearly get run over by dragging her away from the horse's hoofs, and then you go and give her all your pocket-money—I've no patience with you.'

Secretly, Dick Chilcote admired the plucky action, but he was too proud to say so. But Phil, knowing nothing of this, looked very downcast.

The two lads were standing in the road which overlooked the meadow where 'Bagster's World-renowned Circus' had put up its huge tent, the place having a fascination for them.

'Those sort of people,' went on Dick, who was a bit too fond of hearing his own voice, 'have no gratitude.'

'Haven't they, young master?' said a voice in their ears.

It was Tom Venner—otherwise known as 'Long Tom, the Stilt-walker'—who spoke.

'It strikes me they have, only they never get a chance of being quits. Look here, youngster'—this to Phil—'it was my little girl you saved, and one day, if ever I get a chance, I will show you that Long Tom is not ungrateful.'

Phil grew rosy, and more nervous than ever.

'What's your name, I'd like to know?' went on the man.

'Phil Chilcote,' answered the little lad. 'And what's yours, please?'

'Tom Venner, at your service,' was the reply. 'And now I must be off; but I shan't forget you.'

Shortly after this, the dinner-hour being near, the two boys wended their way homewards.

The night which followed this incident was exceptionally wild and stormy, and, for the first time within memory of living man, the whole of the lower part of the village of Radwell was flooded by the tide. The wild rush of waters had swept away the sea-wall as though it had been a mere plaything, and widespread destruction was the result.

It was a terrible night for man and beast, and Tom Venner, as he drove his caravan along the lonely road towards the adjoining town, found it a very difficult matter to make headway in the teeth of the warring elements.

Presently the clouds cleared away from the face of the moon, and then it was that a strange scene met the man's eyes. All the land to the right of him was one wide area of waters, upon which boats were making their way towards a higher level of land. Curiosity prompted him to drive nearer, and presently the sound of voices showed that one boat-load had reached dry land in safety. By the time Tom Venner was on the spot, a second craft had also come in.

'You have got Phil with you, of course,' he heard a man say. It was Mr. Chilcote who spoke, a strange ring of anxiety in his voice.

'No,' was the startled answer of a lady who was hushing a baby to sleep. 'Oh, Maurice, you don't mean to say you left him behind!'

'What!' ejaculated the man, hoarsely. 'Nurse said that he was with you. What shall we do?'

Well might Mr. Chilcote's heart fail, for his home was flooded all round, and in danger of collapsing altogether.

The mother of the little lad gave a cry of bitter distress, a cry which went to Tom's very heart. 'My Phil! my little Phil!' was all she moaned.

'Do you mean to say it's little Phil Chilcote in danger?' shouted Tom, his mind reverting to the only 'Phil' he knew.

'Yes,' was the reply from several voices.

'Then I will save him if mortal man can,' was the plucky response.

'But his window is out of reach, and the stairs are under water by this time,' said the poor mother, despairingly.

Then a brilliant thought struck Tom, and he told it at once to Mr. Chilcote. The result was that in a few moments Tom, with his stilts on either side of him, was being rowed by trusty oarsmen, one of whom was Mr. Chilcote himself, to the Manor House.

'That's the window, my man,' said Mr. Chilcote, when they reached the house; 'do you think you can manage it?'

'Aye, aye, sir,' was the reply. 'Don't you fear!'

But it was a more difficult task than even Tom Venner expected. However, his stilts were soon in working order, and whilst the watchers held their breath for fear, the man accomplished his task. Smashing a pane of glass, he roused the little sleeper, who, owing to the terrible mistake of a well-nigh distraught maid, had been left alone in the Manor House.

A frightened cry came from poor Phil's lips at the sound of the breaking glass. In a few words, however, the man calmed his fears, and explained what had happened. In another moment, little Phil was out of bed, and the window was unfastened by his trembling fingers.

'Have you got a bit of cord handy?' asked Tom Venner of the child.

'Yes; nurse's box-cord is here,' was the reply; 'I use it for my reins.'

'Oh, well, that will do—give it me, quick.'

Tom steadied himself on his stilts as firmly as he could, and then came the difficult task of bringing down the little lad. How he did it Tom could scarcely tell you himself, but certain it is that a few minutes later Phil was safe in his father's arms.

'I say, I am awfully sorry I talked all that rot about—about ingratitude, you know.' So said Dick Chilcote, looking with shamed eyes into Tom Venner's face.

'All right, young master, don't bother your head about that,' was the reply; 'it was a little mistake, that is all.'

Dick was too moved to answer, his ready speech having entirely failed him.

'As for mistakes,' went on Tom, as—the adventure being over—he prepared to mount his caravan, 'I have made plenty of them, and I shall be making another if I don't hurry up after the boss. Good-night to you, my lad.'

'Good-night,' echoed Mr. Chilcote; 'you will be hearing from me, my good friend, in the course of a day or two.'

And so Tom did—a letter which made him open his eyes to their widest extent. Not only did the envelope contain a letter of heartfelt thanks, but a good large cheque.