UP LIKE A ROCKET

On the morning following our return from the flight, there was an uncomfortable chill about my house. When I met Ed Mason, I found that he had noticed the same coolness in his home. Nothing was said, no reproaches were cast upon us for our trip towards Omaha and the great West, but I understood, somehow, that I should not be invited to attend the circus in the afternoon. The necessary half-dollar did not make its appearance. Ed reported a similar state of affairs.

This was simply tragic.

We took counsel, and decided that in Horace Winslow, if anywhere, lay our salvation. He was a person of stratagem, of plans and plots, and he might be able to show us a way out of trouble. Moreover, he had let drop some mysterious hints of influence which he expected to possess with the circus people. More than a week before he had darkly suggested that he might be connected in no inconspicuous position with the coming show.

His utterances returned to us now.

"Let's go over and see him," I suggested.

"All right," Ed Mason agreed; "or, say, you're goin' over to stand on the bank steps at ten o'clock to see the parade, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, we'll see Horace there, sure,—he always goes."

And it was so decided.

Before ten o'clock we all set out for Main Street,—Ed Mason, Rob Currier, Peter Bailey, and myself, together with an unavoidable convoy of small sisters and other relatives. The streets had that appearance which circus day and no other always brought. Toy balloon men and sellers of paper whirligigs wandered up and down, and strange looking persons, clutching children with one hand and paper bags of luncheon with the other, stood or sat on the grass bankings, edge-stones, and lawns, in front of the houses.

Through a sort of family privilege enjoyed by Peter Bailey, and always exercised on such occasions, we took up our position on the steps of the Merrimack Bank. Mr. Vincent, Horace's uncle, could be seen at his duties inside the bank, but he did not come out. Circus processions did not interest him.

Horace was unaccountably absent.

There were two or three false alarms, two or three mistaken announcements by members of the crowd: "Here they come!" Twice we thought we heard in the distance the faint blare of brass instruments, as well as a deeper sound which Ed Mason declared to be the roaring of lions.

But at last they did come. Majestically, and with clashing cymbals, they descended Main Street.

At the head was a gorgeous wagon carrying a brass band. The men were in red coats, and they blew their trombones and cornets and beat their drums with the utmost vigor. A cavalcade followed, and then came four or five large and gayly painted carts, containing, so the pictures and legends indicated, the blood-sweating behemoth, the laughing hyenas, two Nubian lions, and the man-eating tiger of Bengal. But the carts were all closed, and the blood-sweating behemoth, if he were there, gave no sign. Nor did the other animals. We had to be contented with their painted likenesses on the sides of the carts.

"Do you suppose they're inside there, now?" asked Rob Currier's small sister in a hushed voice.

"Of course they are," Ed Mason assured her scornfully; "I saw one of the hyenas through a crack when they went by."

"Look!" said Peter Bailey. "Here comes the steam calliope!"

Sure enough, there it was. A man in overalls was energetically shovelling coal into the boiler, and a charming lady with very pink cheeks sat at the keys. As the thing came opposite us, she began to play, and every ear in the vicinity was split as with ten thousand steam whistles hooting out "Climbing Up Dem Golden Stairs." The noise was deafening, and each boy of us resolved that if he ever became rich, the first thing he would buy would be one of those delightful contrivances. Then he had only to hire a man to shovel coal into it, and he might sit all day and dispense music for miles in every direction.

The calliope passed, as all beautiful things do, and our attention was distracted by a herd of elephants, who slouched along, dusty and morose. Then came some more carts of animals, and then a brilliant zebra led by a boy in a red coat.

This boy looked up at us, grinned joyfully, and waved his hand.

"Why, it's Horace Winslow!" some one exclaimed.

It was indeed Horace. The red coat was evidently intended for a fair-sized man, for it hung below Horace's knees and gave him the appearance of wearing a single garment like a tunic. On his head was rakishly perched a small red cap, similar to those affected by the monkeys who travel with hand-organs. Horace's face was warm and perspiring, and a good deal of dust, aroused by the elephants and the carts, had adhered to it. But it was plainly the supreme moment of his life, and no fussy considerations of cleanliness annoyed him in the least. Was he not a feature in a genuine circus procession, marching with the clown, with real elephants, and leading a proud and striped zebra with his own hand?

He grinned again, and waved his hand to us once more. We were petrified with amazement and envy. At that moment Mr. Vincent, cool and placid in seersucker clothes, stepped out of the bank. He was going down the street on some business errand, and he paused for a moment and gazed indulgently at the procession.

"There's Horace, Mr. Vincent!" we all shouted.

We were determined that he should know of this honor that had come upon his family. It was a fine thing to be cashier of the Merrimack Bank, the trusted guardian of thousands of dollars, but was not this mere dust and ashes compared with leading a zebra in a circus procession? If each generation of his family were to rise in this manner, where might they not end?

Mr. Vincent smiled at us, and said: "What?"

"There's Horace!" we all screamed, pointing our fingers; "don't you see him? Leading the zebra!"

By this time Mr. Vincent had adjusted his eye-glasses, and as he looked in the direction of his glorified nephew, that personage turned around for one final grin and wave of the hand. The change in expression on the visage of the bank-cashier was extraordinary. From mild benignity it turned to purple-faced consternation.

"What?" he gasped; "what? My Horace?"

Then he descended the steps swiftly, and plunged into the crowd on the sidewalk. Apparently he was bent on overtaking his nephew, but the throng blocked his way, and Horace had turned the corner of the next street before his uncle could reach him.

Ed Mason and I did not waste time watching him, for we were discussing a plan. It seemed to promise success, and we only waited for the end of the procession to pass before putting it into operation. Then we detached ourselves from the others, and hastened through Main Street to Haskell's Field, where the tents were pitched for the great show in the afternoon. The field was nearly a mile distant, and the leaders of the procession had already begun to arrive when we got there. We wormed ourselves in between carts and piles of hay, amongst horses, venders of lemonade and peanuts, and dozens of boys and men. Horace and his zebra soon arrived and we sought him out in the crowd.

"I came out here at five o'clock this morning," said he, "an' I helped bring water for the ellerphants, an' hay for the horses, an' then that man over there who took the zebra gave me five cents, an' said if I'd lead the zebra in the parade he'd give me a free ticket for the show this afternoon. Tommy Cheney got inside an' helped a man feed the kangaroos, an'—"

"Do you s'pose we can water the ellerphants or anything?"

"I dunno; it's nearly twelve o'clock now, ain't it? I've got to go home an' get dinner so's to be back here at one, if that man should want anything more, an' you can come back with me then, if you want to, an' p'r'aps you can do something an' get a ticket."

We wanted no other invitation than this. We went back to town with Horace, determined to follow his plan. Like him we would demand our dinners early, and return to the circus field at one o'clock, under his guidance. Doubtless his influence with the zebra man would be all that was needed.

Horace had given over the red coat and hat (but not the dust on his face) to the circus men, and he arrived excited and dishevelled at his uncle's house. He left us at the gate, but we paused an instant, for Mrs. Vincent stood on the veranda to welcome him.

"I want dinner right away, Aunt, 'cos I've got to get back to the circus by one o'clock, an'—"

"Horace Winslow, you come into the house this instant, and take off every stitch, and get into the bath-tub. Look at your face! Get up to the bath-room, quick! The tub is all filled—"

"Oh, Aunt, I can't stop to fool with taking baths,—I want dinner, 'cos I've got to get back there at one o'clock."

"Get back there indeed! Not one step out of this house do you go this afternoon. Take off your jacket before you come into the house,—did you have it on under that horrible red thing? Give it to me,—it's going to be burned up as quick as I can do it. Quick!"

"Oh, Aunt, I've promised the zebra trainer to be back there,—why they're dependin' on me! I've got—"

"Not one step! Do you hear? Now, upstairs with you, and into that bath-tub!"

Horace vanished into the house, followed by his aunt. Ed Mason and I looked disconsolately at each other, and started wearily toward our homes. If any one's influence were going to admit us to the circus, it was not Horace Winslow's.

In the parade he had flashed before our eyes like a rocket, and his descent from glory had been as sudden as the stick. He had declined in power; from a magnificent zebra leader he had become an insignificant atom in a bath-tub. Even before we were out of hearing he uttered a loud howl.

And this was followed by a monitory voice:—

"Horace!"