bly a touch of the serious lends a pleasant contrast to merriment.

There remained Signor Antolini, who was the "World's Greatest
Contortionist," and who certainly could contort in a manner to shame an
angleworm: could twist his slim body into knots that it would seem
almost impossible to untie; and could pass it through a hoop through
which any sensible person would be willing to bet it couldn't go.

Whitey had cause to remember this talent of the Signor's, for in after
days when Whitey tried to pass _his_ body through a small hoop, it
didn't pass. It held Whitey firmly, in a very painful position, all
twisted up like that. And as no one happened to be near, it was some
time before Whitey's yells brought Bill Jordan, who cut the hoop in two,
and instead of applauding, laughed.

And last of all came a little play in which the "entire company" took
part, a comic little play, in which Signor Antolini was a professor who
was going to teach Mrs. Mildini to be an actress. But they were
constantly interrupted by Mr. Mildini, who was a funny darky, all
blacked up. And then it appeared that Mr. Mildini could play on many
instruments; one of them a long spoon, which he used as a flute. There
was no end to that man's talents. And to think he had been so friendly
and chatty with Whitey on the plains!

Well, once in a while it's a good thing to forget that you ever were a
"city fellow," and saw wonderful performances, and to be able to enjoy a
simple show like this. And I suppose the world is a better place for the
Mildinis in it, who travel through rough countries, and for a little
while make people forget the hardships of their lives; lives sometimes
touched by tragedy.

That's the way Whitey felt about it when, for the last time, the troupe
had left the small raised platform that had been built at one end of the
barn to represent a stage, and had retired to the stalls, which served
as dressing-rooms.

The men of the audience were leaving, and most of their faces held
traces of the pleasure the Mildinis' efforts had given them; others had
returned to their usual hardness. Among the last was one the sight of
whom caused Injun to grip Whitey's arm so forcibly that he almost cried
out with pain as he was drawn back into the shadows and Injun pointed
out Henry Dorgan.

CHAPTER XIX

THRESHING-TIME

Injun was a being who ran more to feelings, or instincts, than to
reasons, and like many persons of that kind his insti