The ringmaster, his face very stern and very white, stepped forward to intercept him.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Man insulted me.  Going to lick him,” hiccoughed the rowdy, his eyes fixed on the elephant trainer.

“Leave the ring,” ordered the ringmaster.

“Me?  Guess not!  Will I, boys?” he demanded of his special crowd of cronies.

“No, no!  Go on!  Have it out!”

A good many timid ones arose from their seats.  The ringmaster scented trouble.

Stepping squarely up to the drunken loafer, his hand shot out in a flash and caught the fellow squarely under the jaw.  He knocked him five feet across the ropes, where he landed like a clod of earth in a heap.

Instantly there was an uproar.  The orchestra stopped playing.  The manager ran forward and put up his hand.

“We will have order here at any cost,” he shouted.  “Officer,” to the guard at the entrance, “call the police.”

With wild yells some fifty of the group from which the drunken rowdy had come sprang from the benches.  They jumped over the ropes, crowding into the ring and making for the manager.

Half-a-dozen ring men ran forward to repel them.  Fists brandished, and cudgels, too.  The circus men went down among flying heels.

Then arose a cry, heard for the first time by the excited Andy—­never later recalled without a thrill as he realized from that experience its terrific portent.

“Hey, Rube!”

It was the world-wide rallying cry of the circus folk—­the call in distress for speedy, reliant help.

As if by magic the echoes took up the call.  Andy heard them respond from the farthest haunts of the circus grounds.

From under the benches, through the main entrance, under the loose side flaps, a rallying army sprang into being.

Stake men, wagon men, cooks, hostlers, candy butchers, came flying from every direction.

Every one of them had found a weapon—­a stake.  Like skilled soldiers they grouped, and bore down on the intruders like an avalanche.

Women were shrieking, fainting on the benches, children were crying.  The audience was in a wild turmoil.  Some benches broke down.  The scene was one of riotous confusion.

Suddenly a shot rang out.  Then Andy had a final sight of crashing clubs and mad, bleeding faces, as some one pulled the centre-light rope.  The big chandelier came down with a crash, precipitating the tent in semi-darkness.

So excited was Andy, that, grasping a stake, he was about to dash into the midst of the conflict.  The manager pushed him back.

“Get out of this,” he ordered quickly.  “Look to the women and children.  Our men will see to it that those low loafers get all they came for.”

“Wildwood,” spoke Marco rushing up to Andy just here, “they have cut the guy ropes of the performers’ tent.  I must get to my family.  Look out for Miss Starr.  Here she is.”