You wait here; I'll take a look round." He went quickly in
the direction of the wagons.
Elverson needed no second invitation to wait. He was
congratulating himself upon his good fortune, when he all but
collided with a flying apparition, vanishing in the direction of
the main tent. Sophisticated eyes would have seen only a rather
stout acrobat clad in pink tights; but Elverson was not
sophisticated, and he teetered after the flitting angel, even
unto the forbidden portals of the "big top."
He was peeping through the curtains which had fallen behind her,
and was getting his first glimpse of the great, sawdust world
beyond, when one of the clowns dashed from the dressing tent on
his way to the ring.
The clown was late. He saw the limp coat tails of the deacon,
who was three-quarters in the tent. Here was a chance to make a
funny entrance. He grabbed the unsuspecting little man from the
rear. The terrified deacon struck out blindly in all directions,
his black arms and legs moving like centipede, but the clown held
him firmly by the back and thrust him, head foremost, into the
tent.
Strong returned almost immediately from his unsuccessful search
for the pastor. He looked about the lot for Elverson.
"Hey, there, Elverson!" he called lustily.
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