“Correct, Marco,” assented Billy Blow dejectedly.

It was three weeks after the start of the southern tour of the circus.

Marco, the clown, Midget, Miss Stella Starr, Andy and about a dozen others were seated or strolling around the performers’ tent about the middle of the afternoon.

Every face in the crowd looked anxious—­some disheartened and desperate.

Bad luck attended the southern trip of the show.  They had reached Montgomery in the midst of a terrific rain storm.  Two animal cars had been derailed and wrecked on the route.

Three days later a wind storm nearly tore the main top to tatters.  Some of the performers fell sick, due to the change of climate.  Others foresaw trouble, and joined other shows in the north.

The season started out badly and kept it up.  The attendance as they left the big cities was disastrously light.

They had to cut out one or two towns here and there, on account of bad roads and accidents.  Now the show had reached Lacon, and after more trouble found itself stalled.

To be “stalled,” Andy had learned was to be very nearly stranded.  No salaries had been paid for a full fortnight.  Some of the performers had gotten out executions against the show.

Aside from this, on account of the absence of many attractions advertised in the show bills, disappointed audiences were showing an ugly spirit.

The show was tied up by local creditors, who would not allow it to leave town until their bills were paid.

To make matters worse, Sim Dewey, the treasurer of the show, had run away with eleven thousand dollars two days before.

This comprised the active capital of the show.  Not a trace of the whereabouts of the mean thief had been discovered.

All these facts were known to the performers, and over the same they were brooding that dismal rainy afternoon, awaiting the coming of the manager.

“Here he is,” spoke an eager voice, and Mr. Scripps bustled into the tent.

He rubbed his hands briskly and smiled at everybody, but Andy saw that this was all put on.  Lines of care and anxiety showed about the plucky manager’s eyes and lips.

“Well, my friends,” he spoke at once.  “We’ve arrived at a decision.”

“Good,” commented Marco.  “Let’s have it.”

“I have had a talk with the lawyers who hold the executions against the show, I have suggested four nights and two matinees at half-price, papering four counties liberally.  We’ll announce only the attractions we really have, so there can be no kicking.  What is taken in the treasurer is to hand over to the sheriff.  He is to pay fifty per cent on claims against us.  The balance, minus expenses, is to go for salaries.  I should say that we can pay each performer a full half salary.  There’s the situation, friends.  What do you say?”

“Satisfactory,” nodded Marco.

“Billy Blow?”