Zeno, the balloon clown, eating “redhots,” i.e. peanuts, led the procession, bouncing up and down on a rubber globe in the advance chariot.  The bands began to play.  The prancing horses, rumbling wagons, screaming calliope, frolicking tumblers, tramp bicyclists weaving in and out in grotesque costumes, often on one wheel, the Tallyho stage filled with smiling ladies, old Sultan, the majestic lion, gazing in calm dignity down from his high extension cage—­all this passed, a fantastic panorama, before Andy’s engrossed gaze.

“It’s grand!” decided Andy—­“just grand!  A fellow can never get lonesome here, night or day.  I’m going to like it.  Now for the manager.  Hope I don’t have any trouble.”

When Andy came to the paper tent he found a good many people inside.  There were several performers and canvas men on crutches or bandaged up.  There were village merchants with bills, newspaper men after free passes and persons seeking employment.

They were called in turn up the steps of the wagon that constituted the manager’s office.

Mr. Scripps was a rapid talker, a brisk man of business, and he disposed of the cases presented in quick order.

Andy saw four or five dissipated looking men discharged at a word.  The applicants for work were ordered to appear at Tipton, two days later.

Several were after an advance on their salary.  Some farmers appeared with claims for foraging done by circus hands.  Finally Andy got to the front and tendered the card Mr. Harding had given him.

“All right,” shot out Scripps sharply, giving the lad a keen look.  “You’re the one who blocked the game on Benares?  Good for you!  We’ll remember that, later.”

Scripps glanced over a pasteboard sheet on his desk, first asking Andy his name and age, and writing his answers down in a big-paged book.

“Half-a-dollar a day and keep, for the present,” he said.

“All right,” nodded Andy—­“it’s a start.”

“Just so.  Let me see.  Ah, here we are.  Report to the Wild Man of Borneo side top at twelve.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hammer the big triangle there till two.  Then—­let me see again.  Know how to ride a horse?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Andy eagerly.

“All right, at two o’clock report for the jockey ring section at the horse tent.  They’ll hand you a costume.”

Scripps wrote a number on a red ticket and handed this to Andy—­his pass as an employee.  Just then a newcomer bundled up the steps unceremoniously, a red-faced, fussy old fellow.

“Mail’s in,” he announced.  “Give me the O.K.”

Scripps fumbled in a drawer of his desk and brought out a rubber stamp and pad.

“Mind your eye, Rip,” he observed, casting a scrutinizing look over the intruder.

“Which eye?” demanded the old fellow.

“The one that sees a bottle and glass the quickest.”

“H’m!” grumbled Ripley, or “Rip Van Winkle,” as he was familiarly known by the show people.  “My eyes are all right.  Don’t fret.  I’ve been twenty years with this here show, man and boy—­”