A man in motley garb, with a face of scarlet and white, sitting on a
blue half-barrel near the flap which indicated the entrance to the
men's section of the dressing-tent, caught sight of an arm and hand
lying limp under the edge of the canvas. He stared hard for a moment
and then, attracted by the slim, unfamiliar member, arose and advanced
to the spot. As he stood there, looking down at the hand, a woman and
a young girl approached.

"Drunk," observed the clown, with a grimace.

They stopped beside him, looking down. The woman spoke. "How long and
fine the fingers are. A boy's hand, not a man's. See who is there,
Joey, do."

And so it was that the fugitive was taken.

The clown lifted the sidewall and bent over the form of the lad,
peering into the white, mud-streaked face.

"He's not drunk," he said quickly.

"He looks ill, poor fellow. How wet he is,--and _so_ muddy. Is he
asleep? It isn't--it isn't something else?" She drew back in sudden
dread.

"He's alive, right enough. I say, Mrs. Braddock, there's something
queer about this. He can't belong in this 'ere town, else he wouldn't
be sleepin' 'ere in the mud. He's plain pegged out, ma'am. Like enough
'e's some poor fool as wants to join the circus. Run away from 'ome, I
daresay. We've 'ad lots of 'em follow us up lately, you know. Only