“Not at all, sir,” answered Andy promptly.

Andy saw that he had made a good impression on the manager.  The latter was pleased with him and interested in him.  Andy waited outside the tent.  Soon the village officer and two of the circus detectives sought him out.  These latter questioned him on their own behalf.

“Daley, Murdock and Tapp are in this,” one of them remarked definitely.  “They haven’t got much, this time.  The next break, though, may be for the ticket wagon.  They’ve got to be squelched.”

Andy put in a busy, pleasant day.  He was getting acquainted, he was becoming versed in general circus detail.

For an hour he hammered the huge triangle in front of a side show, as directed.  At the afternoon rehearsal he was one of twenty dressed like jockeys in the ring parade.

Afterwards Andy was making for the clown’s tent, when a fat, red-faced, perspiring fellow, aproned as a cook, hailed him.

“Belong to show?” he asked, waving a frying pan.

“Sure, I do,” answered Andy, proudly.

“Help me a little, will you?”

“Glad to.  What can I do?”

“Open these lard and butter casks and carry them in.  I haven’t time.  There’s a hatchet.  My stuff is all burning up inside.”

A hissing splutter of his ovens made the cook dive into his tent.  Andy picked up a chisel dropped by the cook.  He opened six casks standing on the ground and carried them inside.

The cooking odor pervading the place was very pleasing.  The cook’s assistants were few, some of the regulars were absent, Andy guessed from what he heard the cook say.  The latter was rushed to death, and jumping from stove to stove and utensil to utensil in a great flutter of excitement and haste for he was behind in his work.

Andy caught on to the situation.  In a swift, quiet way he anticipated the cook’s needs.  He dipped and dried some skillets near a trough of water.  He sharpened some knives.  He carried some charcoal hods nearer to a stove needing replenishing.

After awhile the cook began to whistle cheerily.  His perplexities were lessening, and he felt good humored over it.

“Things in running order,” he chirped.  “You’re a game lad.  Hold on a minute.”

The cook emptied out a smoking pan into which he had placed a mass of batter a few minutes previous.

“Don’t burn yourself—­it’s piping hot,” he observed, tendering Andy a tempting raisin cake, enough for two meals.

“Oh, thank you,” said Andy.

“Thank you, lad.  Whenever you need a bite between meals, just drop in.”

Andy came out of the tent passing the cake from hand to hand.  He caught a newspaper sheet fluttering by, wadded it up, and surmounted it with the hot cake.

“That’s better,” he said.  “My, it looks appetizing.  Beg pardon,” added Andy, as rounding a tent he ran against a boy about his own age.