“HEY, RUBE!

“From bad to worse,” said the Man With the Iron Jaw.

“Correct, Marco,” assented Billy Blow dejectedly.

It was three weeks after the start of the southern tour of the circus.

Marco, the clown, Midget, Miss Stella Starr, Andy and about a dozen others were seated or strolling around the performers’ tent about the middle of the afternoon.

Every face in the crowd looked anxious some disheartened and desperate.

Bad luck attended the southern trip of the show. They had reached Montgomery in the midst of a terrific rain storm. Two animal cars had been derailed and wrecked on the route.

Three days later a wind storm nearly tore the main top to tatters. Some of the performers fell sick, due to the change of climate. Others foresaw trouble, and joined other shows in the north.

The season started out badly and kept it up. The attendance as they left the big cities was disastrously light.

They had to cut out one or two towns here and there, on account of bad roads and accidents. Now the show had reached Lacon, and after more trouble found itself stalled.

To be “stalled,” Andy had learned was to be very nearly stranded. No salaries had been paid for a full fortnight. Some of the performers had gotten out executions against the show.

Aside from this, on account of the absence of many attractions advertised in the show bills, disappointed audiences were showing an ugly spirit.

The show was tied up by local creditors, who would not allow it to leave town until their bills were paid.

To make matters worse, Sim Dewey, the treasurer of the show, had run away with eleven thousand dollars two days before.

This comprised the active capital of the show. Not a trace of the whereabouts of the mean thief had been discovered.

All these facts were known to the performers, and over the same they were brooding that dismal rainy afternoon, awaiting the coming of the manager.

“Here he is,” spoke an eager voice, and Mr. Scripps bustled into the tent.

He rubbed his hands briskly and smiled at everybody, but Andy saw that this was all put on. Lines of care and anxiety showed about the plucky manager’s eyes and lips.

“Well, my friends,” he spoke at once. “We’ve arrived at a decision.”

“Good,” commented Marco. “Let’s have it.”

“I have had a talk with the lawyers who hold the executions against the show, I have suggested four nights and two matinées at half-price, papering four counties liberally. We’ll announce only the attractions we really have, so there can be no kicking. What is taken in the treasurer is to hand over to the sheriff. He is to pay fifty per cent on claims against us. The balance, minus expenses, is to go for salaries. I should say that we can pay each performer a full half salary. There’s the situation, friends. What do you say?”

“Satisfactory,” nodded Marco.

“Billy Blow?”

“I’ve got pretty heavy expenses, with a wife in the hospital,” said the clown in a subdued tone, “but I’ll try and make half salary do.”

“Miss Starr?”

The kind-hearted equestrienne smiled brightly.

“Take care of the others first, Mr. Scripps,” she said. “While I have these, we won’t exactly starve.”

Miss Stella Starr shook the glittering diamond pendants in her pretty pink ears.

“Thank you,” bowed the manager, choking up a trifle. “Andy Wildwood?”

“I’m a mere speck in the show,” said Andy, “but I’ll stick if there isn’t a cent of salary. It’s the last ditch for my good, true friends, Mr. Scripps.”

The manager turned aside to hide his emotion.

“Friends,” he resumed an instant later, “you break me all up with this kind of talk. You’re a royal, good lot. I’ve wired Mr. Harding that he must help us out. Stick to your posts, and no one shall lose a dollar.”

There was not a dissent to his proposition as he completed calling the list of performers. Andy’s action shamed some into coming into the arrangements. The manager’s words encouraged others. While some few answered grudgingly, the compact was made unanimous.

“There’s a crowd of hard roughs trying to make trouble,” concluded Mr. Scripps. “Leave that to the tent men. Give the best show you know how, try and please the crowds, and I guess we’ll win out.”

Every act went excellently at the evening performance up to about the middle of the programme.

Andy did his level best. He won an encore by a trick somersault old Benares had taught him.

Billy Blow was at his funniest. He had the audience in fine, good humor. Little Midget over-exerted himself to follow in his father’s lead.

Marco was a pronounced success. Miss Stella Starr made one of her horses dance a graceful round to the tune of “Dixie,” and the audience went wild.

Andy, in street dress, came into the canvas passageway near the orchestra as the trick elephants were led into the ring. The manager nodded to him. Andy saw that he was pleased the way things were going.

For all that, he observed that Mr. Scripps kept his eye pretty closely on a rough crowd occupying seats near the entrance.

They seemed to be of a general group. They talked loudly and passed all kinds of comments on the various acts.

Finally one of their number shied a carrot into the ring, striking the elephant trainer.

The latter caught his cue instantly at a word from the ringmaster. He picked up the vegetable, made a profound bow to the sender, juggled it cleverly with his training wand, one-two-three, and turned the tables completely as the smart baby elephant caught it on the fly.

Cat calls rang out derisively from a lot of boys, directed at the group of rowdies from the midst of whom the carrot had been thrown.

Then a man arose unsteadily from that mob and stumbled over the ring ropes.

The ringmaster, his face very stern and very white, stepped forward to intercept him.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Man insulted me. Going to lick him,” hiccoughed the rowdy, his eyes fixed on the elephant trainer.

“Leave the ring,” ordered the ringmaster.

“Me? Guess not! Will I, boys?” he demanded of his special crowd of cronies.

“No, no! Go on! Have it out!”

A good many timid ones arose from their seats. The ringmaster scented trouble.

Stepping squarely up to the drunken loafer, his hand shot out in a flash and caught the fellow squarely under the jaw. He knocked him five feet across the ropes, where he landed like a clod of earth in a heap.

Instantly there was an uproar. The orchestra stopped playing. The manager ran forward and put up his hand.

“We will have order here at any cost,” he shouted. “Officer,” to the guard at the entrance, “call the police.”

With wild yells some fifty of the group from which the drunken rowdy had come sprang from the benches. They jumped over the ropes, crowding into the ring and making for the manager.

Half-a-dozen ring men ran forward to repel them. Fists brandished, and cudgels, too. The circus men went down among flying heels.

Then arose a cry, heard for the first time by the excited Andy never later recalled without a thrill as he realized from that experience its terrific portent.

“Hey, Rube!”

It was the world-wide rallying cry of the circus folk the call in distress for speedy, reliant help.

As if by magic the echoes took up the call. Andy heard them respond from the farthest haunts of the circus grounds.

From under the benches, through the main entrance, under the loose side flaps, a rallying army sprang into being.

Stake men, wagon men, cooks, hostlers, candy butchers, came flying from every direction.

Every one of them had found a weapon a stake. Like skilled soldiers they grouped, and bore down on the intruders like an avalanche.

Women were shrieking, fainting on the benches, children were crying. The audience was in a wild turmoil. Some benches broke down. The scene was one of riotous confusion.

Suddenly a shot rang out. Then Andy had a final sight of crashing clubs and mad, bleeding faces, as some one pulled the centre-light rope. The big chandelier came down with a crash, precipitating the tent in semi-darkness.

So excited was Andy, that, grasping a stake, he was about to dash into the midst of the conflict. The manager pushed him back.

“Get out of this,” he ordered quickly. “Look to the women and children. Our men will see to it that those low loafers get all they came for.”

“Wildwood,” spoke Marco rushing up to Andy just here, “they have cut the guy ropes of the performers’ tent. I must get to my family. Look out for Miss Starr. Here she is.”