"Now I'll see about makin' the saddle," said Bob, "'cause I've seen 'em
a good many times in a circus, an' I know jest how they're made. While
I'm doin' that, you fellers must be fixin' 'bout who else we'll have in
the show. Leander Leighton will come up here to-morrow, so's we can hear
how he plays, an' we must have everything fixed by then."
"Why didn't he come to-day?" asked Ben, thinking that all the members of
the firm should have been present at this first rehearsal.
[Illustration: LEANDER IS ENGAGED AT HOME.]
"Well, you see, he had to split some wood, an' he had to take care of
the baby. I offered to help him with the wood; but he said he couldn't
get away any quicker if I did, for just as soon as the baby saw another
feller waitin' 'round, she'd yell so awful hard he'd have to stay in all
day."
This explanation as to the absence of the band appeared to be perfectly
satisfactory to those present, and they began to discuss the merits of
certain of their companions in order to decide upon the proper ones to
enlist as members, since the number of their performers was not so large
as they thought it should be in a show where an admission fee of three
cents was to be charged.
Just as they were getting well into their discussion, and, of course,
speaking of such matters as managers should keep a profound secret from
the public, Bob cried out:
"There comes Abner Bolton! He's always runnin' 'round where he ain't
wanted; an' I wonder how he come to know we was here? I'll send him off
mighty quick, now you see."
The boy who had disturbed Bob so greatly was so near when he was first
discovered that by the time the threat had been uttered he was close
upon them. He was a small boy, not more than eight years old, and hardly
as large as a boy of six should be; he walked on crutches because of his
deformed legs, which hung withered and almost useless, barely capable of
supporting his slight weight.
"Now, what do _you_ want?" asked Bob, in an angry tone.
"I don't want anything," was the mild reply, as the cripple halted just
outside the shade, as if not daring to come any farther until invited.
"I heard you was goin' to get up a circus, an' I thought perhaps you'd
let me watch you, 'cause I wouldn't bother you any."
"You would bother us, an' you can't stay 'round here, for we ain't goin'
to have anybody watchin' us. You may come to the show if you can get
three cents."
"I don't s'pose I could do that," said the boy, looking longingly toward
the shade, but still standing in the sun. "I don't have any chance to
get money, an' I do wish you boys would let me stay where you are, for
it's so awful lonesome out to the poor-farm, an' I can't run around as
you can."
"Well, you can't stay here, an' the sooner you go back to the farm the
better we'll like it, for we don't want anybody to know what we're
talkin' about."
Toby had attempted to speak once or twice while Bob was engaged with the
cripple from the poor-farm; but he did not get an opportunity until
Abner turned to go away, looking thoroughly sad and disheartened.
"Don't go, Abner, but come and set down here where it's cool, an'
perhaps we can fix it for you."
The cripple turned as Toby spoke, and the look which came into his face
went right to the heart of the boy, who for ten long weeks had known
what it was to be almost without a friend.
"I don't see what you want him 'round here for," said Bob, petulantly,
as Abner seated himself by Toby's side, thoroughly exhausted by his long
walk. "He can't do nothin'; an' if he could, we don't want no fellers
from the poor-farm mixed up with the show."
"It don't make any difference if he does live to the poor-farm," said
Toby, as he put his little brown hand on Abner's thin fingers. "He can
belong to the show jest as well as not; an' if you fellers will let him,
I'll give you my part of all the money we make."
This proposition of Toby's put the matter on a very different basis, and
both Ben and Bob now looked favorably inclined toward it.
"Don't you do that, Toby," said Abner, his eyes filling with tears
because of the kindness shown him. "I'll go right away, an' I won't come
into the village again to bother you."
"You shall come into the village every day, Abner, an' you won't bother
us at all, for you shall go 'long of me everywhere I do, an' I won't
never walk any faster'n you can;" and Toby moved his seat nearer Abner,
to show that he took him under his especial care.
"He might help tend the door," said Joe, kindly, anxious to please Toby,
"an' that'll give me a chance to do more howlin' for the hyenas, 'cause
that'll be about all I oughter do if I have to hold the hoops."
"Yes, he can do that;" and Toby was very eager now. "An' we can get him
a stool to sit on, an' he can do jest as much as if he could stand up."
By this time Bob and Ben had decided that, in consideration of Toby's
offer, Abner should be counted as one of the company, and the matters
under discussion that had been interrupted by the cripple's coming were
again taken up.
Owing to the possible chance that Joe could not succeed in training the
blind horse sufficiently to make him useful in the ring, it was
necessary to know just what animals they could procure, and Bob offered
to see Chandler Merrill for the purpose of securing the services of his
Mexican pony, which had never allowed any one to ride him without first
having a severe battle.
"We can train him down all right," said Bob; "an' you fellers come down
now while I find out 'bout the pony, so's we can come back here after
dinner."
As it was very important that this matter should be settled as soon as
possible, Bob's advice was acted upon; and as the boys started to go,
Toby said:
"Come, Abner, you come home with me an' get some dinner, an' then you
can come back here when I do."
Bob was disposed to make sport of this sudden friendship; but Toby paid
no attention to what he said, and if any of them wanted to talk to him,
they too were obliged to walk with the boy from the poor-farm.
By the time they arrived at Uncle Daniel's, Toby had formed many plans
for making the life of the homeless boy more cheerful than it ever had
been.
Toby's interest in the crippled boy whom he had taken under his charge
was considerably greater than in the contemplated circus; and both Bob
and Ben felt angry and injured when, in the midst of some brilliant plan
for startling those of the good people of Guilford who should come to
their circus, Toby would stop to say something to Abner, who was
hobbling along as fast as possible in order that he might not oblige the
party to wait for him.
For a number of years Toby had known that there was a crippled orphan at
the poor-farm; but it so happened that he had not met him very often,
and even then he had no idea of the lonely life the boy was obliged to
lead.
On the way to the village he had formed several plans by which he might
aid Abner; but none of them could be put into operation until after he
had consulted Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive.
It was nearly noon, and the understanding was that each one should get
his dinner and go to the pasture again, when it would be known whether
they were to be able to number Chandler Merrill's pony among the
attractions of their show, or be wholly dependent upon the disabled
horses that as yet made up their collection.
"You're comin' to get dinner with me, Abner," said Toby, as he stopped
in front of Uncle Daniel's gate, while the little fellow was continuing
on his way to the only place he could call home, there to get his dinner
with the other paupers.
"I'm afraid your aunt won't want me," he said, shyly, while it was plain
to be seen that he would be more than well pleased to accept the
invitation.
"Aunt Olive won't care a bit, an' she'll be glad to have you, I know,
'cause she says it always does her good to see hungry people eat, though
if that's so, I must have done her an awful sight of good lots of times,
for it don't seem to me I ever set down to the table in my life but what
I was awful hungry. Come on now, so's we'll have time to get our hands
an' faces washed before the dinner-bell rings."
Abner followed Toby in a hesitating way, much as if he expected each
moment to be ordered back; and when they arrived at the door he stood on
the threshold, not daring to enter until permission had been given.
"This is Abner Bolton, Uncle Dan'l," said Toby, as he saw that his newly
made friend would not come in without an invitation from some one
besides himself. "He lives out to the poor-farm, an' he don't have any
such nice home as I've got, so I thought you wouldn't care if I brought
him in to dinner."
"You've got a good heart, Toby, boy, and the Lord will reward you for
it," said Uncle Daniel, as he stroked the boy's refractory hair. And
then he said to Abner, "Come in, my lad, and share Toby's dinner; nor
need you ever hesitate about accepting any such invitation when it leads
you here."
Then Aunt Olive greeted Abner so kindly that the poor boy hardly knew
whether it was reality or a dream, so strange was it all to him.
During the dinner Toby told of the difficulty he had had in getting his
partners to consent to Abner's being one of the company, and Aunt Olive,
who had shown considerable interest in the circus scheme, said:
"Why don't you let him keep a stand, and then he can make some money for
himself. I will bake him a lot of doughnuts and ginger-snaps, and your
uncle Dan'l will lend him money enough to buy lemons an' sugar. It will
be a deal better than to have Nahum Baker there with his pies that are
as heavy as lead, an' doughnuts that have soaked up all the fat in the
pan."
Toby was delighted with the plan, and Abner's eyes glistened at the mere
idea that it might be possible for him to do, once in his life at least,
as did other and more fortunate boys.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]