A CRASH IN THE STORM.

“Git up there, you lazy critters! Git up! Do yer know it’s stormin’ like mad an’ we hev still six miles to go? Git up!”

Crack! slash! down came the lash of the heavy whip on the backs of the two tired horses, and forward lurched the rickety circus wagon with a jounce which threatened to smash both springs and axle.

It was indeed “storming like mad.” Overhead the sky was inky-black, except when lit up by vivid streaks of lightning, and the cold September rain came down in almost unbroken sheets.

Along the dismal and muddy road straggled the dozen wagons and trucks belonging to Bambo’s International Circus and Menagerie, the Greatest Aggregation of Marvels on the Globe. At the head of the procession, in the covered hood of the band chariot, rode Daniel Bambo himself, a lean and sour-faced individual, his face at this moment more sour than ever.

Business had been bad at Camville, the last stopping place, and now it promised to be worse at Ryetown. Perhaps it would rain so hard that it would be impossible to raise the one dilapidated tent of which the circus boasted.

“Hang the luck, anyhow!” muttered Daniel Bambo to himself. “The rain will spoil everything. We won’t be able to show at all, and how I’m goin’ to pay those feed bills and the performers I don’t know. I have most a mind to sell out, first chance I git. The variety business is a heap sight better than this.”

In savage mood he whipped up the horses again, then stood up and looked back to see if the other wagons were following. A streak of lightning told him the outfit were all in the struggle, and then a jerk and a jar nearly knocked him into the road.

“Whoa!” he yelled, as he steadied himself by holding on to the iron brace of the hood. “Whoa, Billy! What’s the matter now?”

The last remark was called forth by the fact that the left horse had turned partly around and was kicking vigorously. The chariot came to a standstill, and Bambo peered over the high dashboard.

“Bu’sted again!” he murmured, referring to the worn-out harness. “Knew it wouldn’t last. Neka! Neka!” he called out, turning around.

For several seconds there was no response. In savage impatience the man leaned over and struck out with his whip into the darkness of the chariot body. Crack! crack! the lash came down on a bit of thin canvas, which was quickly thrown aside, and a boy appeared, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Had there been more light it could have been noted that the boy was tall, thin, and, despite his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, handsome. It could also have been noted that he had been shamefully misused, and that he had suffered bodily and mentally.

“Can’t yer hear nothin’?” demanded Bambo. “Want me to wait all night fer you?”

“I was dead tired, sir,” replied the youth, in a voice which showed how exhausted he was.

Indeed, had it been otherwise he would not have slept so soundly in that pelting rain with only a bit of soaked canvas over him.

“You’re always tired!” growled the proprietor of the Greatest Aggregation of Marvels on the Globe. “What do you suppose I’m keepin’ you fer, eh? Hump yourself now, and git down and tie up the harness. It’s all bu’sted again.”

The boy drew a long breath and sighed deeply. He was still half asleep.

“Where is the cord?” he asked.

“Don’t you know as well as I do? It’s in the back under the box. Here is the key. Hurry up, and see that the next wagon don’t run into us in the dark.”

The boy climbed up the side of the chariot and dropped to the road. In the darkness he landed in a puddle of water, but he hardly minded this. When one is utterly exhausted in body and mind, such seeming trifles do not count.

Splashing through the mud, he felt his way to the back of the chariot. Then he felt for the padlock of the under locker, and, finding it, inserted the key.

He was on the point of opening the locker when a sound back of him attracted his attention. The next turnout, that containing the poles and seats, was coming up.

“Hi there! stop!” he called out. “Stop your team, Hank Maul!”

Scarcely had the words been uttered than out of the darkness appeared the heavy wagon. The driver, half asleep on the box, paid no attention to the warning.

“Stop! stop!” repeated the boy, shrilly. “Don’t you hear me, Hank Maul?”

And then, as the driver continued to doze away, he leaped for the head of the nearest horse, with the intention of turning the team to one side.

It was a perilous thing to attempt, yet he did not falter, realizing to a certain extent what would follow should anything go wrong.

He caught the horse, but was not strong enough to stop him, nor to alter his course to any considerable extent.

Bang! the heavy pole struck the rear of the chariot. Jingle! jingle! went the large oval mirror with which the rear was decorated, and then the pole went clear through the woodwork, scattering the splinters in all directions.

Luckily for the horses, their harness, like the set used for the first team, was old and rotten. The beasts shied right and left, and broke free with scarcely a scratch on either. The sleepy driver pitched off sideways into the mud puddle, thus saving his neck from being broken.

A second later the air was fairly blue with imprecations from the lips of Daniel Bambo and from the driver, who arose with mud plastered over him from head to foot. Bambo leaped down and came forward, whip in hand, his face blazing with passion.

“You good fer nothin’ rascal!” he fairly foamed. “Didn’t I tell you to stop the next wagon? Look at the damage you’ve caused!”

“Do ye want ter break my neck?” put in Hank Maul. “Why didn’t ye run back an’ warn me? Bambo, that boy ought to be licked within an inch of his life.”

“Well, you’re to blame too, and I’ll take the price of this smash-up out of your next pay!” retorted Daniel Bambo, who knew well enough he could get nothing from the boy, seeing as the youth had absolutely nothing. “Neka, come here, till I tan yer hide well fer you!”

The boy stepped back. Somehow he felt that he was not to blame. He clinched his fists and shut his teeth hard.

“I don’t want you to whip me,” he said, from between his closed teeth.

“Don’t you?” howled the circus proprietor, sarcastically. “It ain’t fer you to say what yer want, see? Come here!”

“I--I--won’t!”

The words were out at last. The boy had longed to rebel against the harsh treatment he received, but up to the present had not dared. He was only fourteen years old, and for four years had known but one master, Daniel Bambo, who must be obeyed at all times.

“Yer won’t?” fairly shouted the owner of the Greatest Aggregation of Marvels on the Globe. “I’ll give yer a couple of extra ones on yer back fer that!”

And flourishing the whip over his head, he darted to where the boy stood.

For only an instant did the lad remain standing; then he began to retreat.

“Stop, Neka, stop, or I’ll break every bone in your body!”

“I won’t! I ain’t going to be whipped for this accident!” was the firm reply. “I did what I could to turn the horses out.”

“Don’t talk back to me!” foamed Daniel Bambo.

“Gittin’ mighty nasty, ain’t he?” put in Hank Maul, maliciously.

“I’ll take it out of him--or kill him!” howled the circus proprietor. “Are you goin’ to stop now?”

Once more he darted forward. The boy continued to retreat, but was collared as he was in the act of leaping a log fence to one side of the road.

“Now take that!” continued Daniel Bambo.

But ere the whip could descend, a stone, thrown from the darkness of the field beyond, caught him in the side of the head and knocked him flat on his back, and more than half unconscious.

The boy was as much astonished as any one at the unexpected turn of affairs. He gazed on the scene in amazement, but as Hank Maul sprang forward to Bambo’s aid, a new idea seemed to take possession of him, and off he ran down the muddy road as fast as his legs would carry him.