“Thank you, sir, I shall not forget what you have told me,” said Andy.

For all that, Andy’s mind was for the present full only of the pomp and glitter of his new calling.  One supreme thought made his heart bubble over with joy: 

At last he had reached the goal of his fondest wishes.  Andy Wildwood had “joined the circus.”

CHAPTER XVI

THE REGISTERED MAIL

Andy hurried back to the circus grounds the happiest boy on earth.  He went straight to the clown’s tent.

Billy Blow was making up for the morning parade.  Dressed up as a way-back farmer, he was to drive a hay wagon, breaking into the procession here and there along the line of march.  Finally, when he had created a sensation, he was to drop his disguise and emerge in his usual popular ring character.

While Billy was putting the finishing touches to his toilet he conversed with Andy, congratulating him on his success in getting a job with the show.

“Wait about half-an-hour till the parade gets off the grounds,” he advised Andy.  “Scripps, the manager, will be busy till then.  You’ll find him in the paper tent.”

Andy knew what that was—­the structure containing the programmes and general advertising and posting outfits of the show.  He had noticed it earlier in the day.  A wagon inside the tent, with steps and windows, comprised the manager’s private office.

Little Midge was sitting up playing with some show children who had brought in a lot of toys.  Andy went outside with Billy.

“See here,” said the clown, as he hurried off to join the parade.  “Tell Scripps that you bunk with me.  Any objection?”

“I should say not.”

“You’re welcome.  The general crowd they’d put you with is a bit too rough for a raw recruit.  Just stand what they give you till we reach Tipton.  You’ve got friends enough to pull you up into the performers’ rank.  We’ll fix you out there.”

“Thank you,” said Andy.

He strolled about with a happy smile on his face.  Prospects looked fine, and Andy’s heart warmed as he thought of all the good friends he had made.

“They’re a nice crowd,” he thought—­“Miss Starr, Marco, the Benares Brothers, the clown.  How different, though, to what I used to think!  It’s business with them, real work, for all the tinsel and glare.  It’s a pleasant business, though, and they must make a lot of money.”

There was a shrill, whistling shriek from the calliope wagon.  The various performers scampered from their dressing rooms at the signal.

Each person, vehicle and animal fell into line in the morning caravan with a promptness and ease born of long practice.

Soon there was a fluttering line of gay color, rich plush hangings, bullion-trimmed uniforms, silken flags and streamers.