Polly and Bingo always made the audience “sit up” when they swept into
the ring. She was so young, so gaily clad, so light and joyous in all
her poses. She seemed scarcely to touch the back of the white horse, as
they dashed round the ring in the glare of the tent lights. The other
performers went through their work mechanically while Polly rode, for
they knew the audience was watching her only.
As for Polly, her work had never lost its first interest. Jim may have
been right when he said that the spirit of the dead mother had got into
her; but it must have been an unsatisfied spirit, unable to fulfil its
ambition in the body that once held it, for it sometimes played strange
pranks with Polly. To-night, her eyes shone and her lips were parted in
anticipation, as she leaped lightly over the many coloured streamers of
the wheel of silken ribbons held by Barker in the centre of the ring,
and by Toby and the “tumblers” on the edge of the bank.
With each change of her act, the audience cheered and frantically
applauded. The band played faster; Bingo's pace increased; the end of
her turn was coming. The “tumblers” arranged themselves around the ring
with paper hoops; Bingo was fairly racing. She went through the first
hoop with a crash of tearing paper and cheers from the audience.
“Heigh, Bingo!” she shouted, as she bent her knees to make ready for the
final leap.
Bingo's neck was stretched. He had never gone so fast before. Barker
looked uneasy. Toby forgot to go on with his accustomed tricks. Jim
watched anxiously from the entrance.
The paper of one hoop was still left unbroken. The attendant turned his
eyes to glance at the oncoming girl; the hoop shifted slightly in his
clumsy hand as Polly leapt straight up from Bingo's back, trusting to
her first calculation. Her forehead struck the edge of the hoop. She
clutched wildly at the air. Bingo galloped on, and she fell to the
ground, striking her head against the iron-bound stake at the edge of
the ring.
Everything stopped. There was a gasp of horror; the musicians dropped
their instruments; Bingo halted and looked back uneasily; she lay
unconscious and seemingly lifeless.
A great cry went up in the tent. Panic-stricken, men, women and children
began to clamber down from their seats, while others nearest the ground
attempted to jump into the ring. Barker, still grasping his long whip,
rushed to the girl's side, and shouted wildly to Toby:
“Say something, you. Get 'em back!”
Old Toby turned his white face to the crowd, his features worked
convulsively, but he could not speak. His grief was so grotesque, that
the few who saw him laughed hysterically. He could not even go to Polly,
his feet seemed pinned to the earth.
Jim rushed into the tent at the first cry of the audience. He lifted the
limp form tenderly, and kneeling in the ring held her bruised head in
his hands.
“Can't you get a doctor!” he shouted desperately to Barker.
“Here's the doctor!” some one called; and a stranger came toward them.
He bent over the seemingly lifeless form, his fingers on the tiny wrist,
his ear to the heart.
“Well, sir?” Jim faltered, for he had caught the puzzled look in the
doctor's eyes as his deft hand pressed the cruelly wounded head.
“I can't tell just yet,” said the doctor. “She must be taken away.”
“Where can we take her?” asked Jim, a look of terror in his great,
troubled eyes.
“The parsonage is the nearest house,” said the doctor. “I am sure the
pastor will be glad to have her there until we can find out how badly
she is hurt.”
In an instant Barker was back in the centre of the ring. He announced
that Polly's injuries were slight, called the attention of the audience
to the wonderful concert to take place, and bade them make ready for the
thrilling chariot race which would end the show.
Jim, blind with despair, lifted the light burden and staggered out of
the tent, while the band played furiously and the people fell back
into their seats. The Roman chariots thundered and clattered around the
outside of the ring, the audience cheered the winner of the race, and
for the moment Polly was forgotten.