Intermittent strains of music came dancing up into the hills from the
heart of S--. The wayfarers looked at each other in the darkness and
listened in wonder to these sounds that rose above the swish of the
restless rain.

"It's a band," murmured one of the two behind.

"Yas, 'r; a circus band," vouchsafed the guide, a sudden eagerness in
his voice. "Van Slye's Great and Only Mammoth Shows--"

"A circus?" interrupted one of the men gruffly. "Then the whole town
is full of strangers. That's bad for us, Blake."

"I don't see why. He's more than likely to be where the excitement's
highest, ain't he? He's not too old for that. We'll find him in that
circus tent, Tom, if he's in the town at all."

"First circus they've had in S---- in a dawg's age," ventured the
guide, with the irrelevancy of an excited boy. "Rice's was there once,
I can't remember jest when, an' they was some talk of Barnum las'
yeah, they say, but he done pass us by. He's got a Holy Beheemoth that
sweats blood this yeah, they say. Doggone, I'd like to see one." The
guide had not ventured so much as this, all told, in the six hours of
their acquaintanceship.

"Well, let's be moving on. I'm wet clear through," shivered Blake.

Silence fell upon them once more. No word was spoken after that,
except in relation to an oath of exasperation; they swung forward into
the lower road, their sullen eyes set on the lights ahead. Heavy feet,