But alas! this is a world of disappointment.  On the morning of the circus Tom was seized with a violent chill, which almost shook him out of his shoes.  He tried with might and main to master it; for he well knew that if he did not, his visit to the wonderful show must be postponed indefinitely.  He strove like a hero, and was actually sick several hours before the watchful eyes of his mother and aunt discovered his plight.  The moment came when he could hold out no longer, with his teeth rattling like castanets, and his red face so hot that it was painful to the touch.  Since the performance did not open until two o’clock in the afternoon, he did not as yet abandon all hope.

His mother and aunt sympathized with him; but although he rallied to a great extent from his illness, they could not give consent for him to leave the house.  He partook of refreshment, and left his bed at noon.  At two o’clock he was able to sit in the chair by the window, with his fever greatly abated, and an hour later he was as free from all traces of the ague as you or I.

But it was then too late to go to the circus.  The disappointment was a sore one, but the lad stood it like the really brave fellow he was.  He swallowed the lump in his throat, and smiled as he said to his aunt,—­

“When the circus comes again, I don’t think I’ll have a chill.”

“And you shall see it, if you are alive then,—­of that be assured.”

The day was one of the most pleasant and balmy of the season, and Tom walked out of the house, leaned on the gate, and looked up and down the highway.

Suddenly he observed a span of horses coming on a gallop, while the driver of the open wagon was lashing them with his whip and urging them to still greater speed.

“They aren’t running away,” mused the astonished boy; “for, if they were, the man wouldn’t be trying to make them run faster.  It’s Mr. MacDowell!  I never saw him drive faster than a walk before; something dreadful must have happened.”

As Mr. MacDowell caught sight of the boy, and came opposite, he shouted something, and with an expression of terror glanced around and pointed with his whip behind him.  The furious rattle of the wagon prevented Tom’s catching the words, and the terrified farmer did not repeat them, but lashed his team harder than ever, vanishing in a cloud of dust raised by his own wheels.

“He must be crazy,” said Tom, unable to think of any other explanation of the old man’s frantic behavior.

The lad stood with his head turned toward the cloud of dust, wondering and speculating over the strange affair, when hurried footsteps caused him to turn quickly and look again in the direction of the village.

This time it was Jim Travers, who was panting from his running, and whose face was a picture of consternation, equal to that of Farmer MacDowell.

“What’s the matter, Jim?” asked Tom as his schoolmate reached him.