They soon reached the corner of the ten-acre lot.  There, tethered to a stake and grazing placidly, was a big-boned, patient-looking horse.

Across his back was strapped a small platform made of a cistern cover.  This had been cushioned with a folded buggy robe.

Alf Warren dove excitedly into a clump of bushes.  He reappeared triumphantly holding aloft a big hoop.  It was wound round and round with strips of woolen cloth which exuded an unmistakable and unpleasant odor of kerosene.

“Say! it’s going to be just like the circus picture on the side of the post office, isn’t it?” chuckled little Tod Smith.

Ned Wilier took down the fence bars and led the horse out into the road.

Andy pulled off his coat and shoes.  He stowed them alongside a rock near the fence.  Then he produced some elastic bands and secured his trousers around the ankles.

His eyes brightened and he forgot all his troubles for the time being, as he ran back a bit.

“Out of the way there!” shouted Andy with glowing cheeks, posing for a forward dash.

He made a quick, superb bound and landed lightly on the horse’s back.

Old Dobbin shied restively.  Ned, at his nose, quieted him with a word.

Andy, the centre of an admiring group, tested the impromptu platform.  He accepted a short riding whip handed up to him by Alf Warren with a truly professional flourish.  Andy stood easy and erect, one hand on his hip.  All that seemed lacking was the sawdust ring and a tinselled garb.

“Ready,” announced Andy.

All of the group except Ned Wilfer started down the road in the wake of Alf Warren.  The latter carried the hoop in one hand, some matches in the other.

The mob rounded the highway, purposely selected because it curved, and disappeared from view.

“Everything all right, Andy?” inquired Ned, strutting about with quite a ringmaster-like air.

“Yes, if the horse will go any.”

“Oh, he’ll get up full speed, once started,” assured Ned.

It was fully five minutes before an expected signal reached them.  From far around the bend in the road there suddenly echoed vivid shouts and whistlings.

“Start him up,” ordered Andy.

Ned led the horse a few rods and got him to running.  Then, dropping to the rear, he kept pace with the animal, slapping one flank and urging him up to greater speed.

He fell behind, but kept on running, as Andy, guiding the horse by the long bridle reins, occasionally gave him a stimulating touch of the light whip he carried.

Five hundred feet covered, old Dobbin seemed to enjoy the novelty of the occasion, and kept up a very fair gait.

Rounding the curve in the road and looking a quarter-of-a-mile ahead, Andy could see his schoolmates gathered around a tree stump surmounted by Alf Warren, holding the hoop aloft.

Just here, too, for the space of a mere minute Andy could view the schoolhouse through a break in the timber.