ere was a shout from the spectators. Some one gave him a
nudge.

"Pipe up, boy. We're ready for 'Massa's in the cold, cold ground.'"

Philemon opened his mouth, but no sound came. The eyes on every side
burned into him. His one desire was to rush away from those blackened
men, from the choking odor of tan and kerosene, from the disgrace of
standing there, like a little black fiend, to be hooted at and expected
to make fun for the crowd. His brain reeled. With a cry he broke from a
detaining hand, and ran headlong across the arena, his yellow coat tails
flapping about his heels.

Through the back tent he sped, past Madame Lucetta Almazida, who was
holding the "Phenomenal Trapezist" in her arms, past Mons. Duval, out
into the night. Home--home--home--that was the place toward which, if he
had had wings, he would have flown. Being neither an angel nor even a
bird, only a little wretched boy, all he could do was to stumble along
the dark road. Eight miles away was his home. On and on he went, and at
last his weary feet began to flag.

It seemed as if the chirping crickets were hissing at him. The frogs in
the ponds croaked disapprovingly. Even the stars winked reproachfully.

He was growing exhausted. He sank down by a fence, and his eyelids
closed heavily.

The sun was high when he awoke, and then a colder, hungrier boy you
never saw. Six miles from home was he. There was nothing for it but to
plod along, for there were no houses on that road. One mile, two miles,
he walked. He picked some apples by the road-side, but they were sour
and hard. Sometimes he tried to run, but had to give that up.

At five o'clock that afternoon the cook at a certain farm-house was
frying doughnuts in the back kitchen. She was looking very sober, and
near her sat a very sober boy, who every now and then drew his hand
across his eyes. At last he spoke.

"Cerinthy," said he, "do you cal'late they'll ever find him?"

Cerinthy put another doughnut into the expostulating fat. "Romeo
Augustus," said she, "it's my opinion that maybe they may and maybe they
mayn't; an' like as not if they do, it'll only be his body, and-- Oh!"

Cerinthy gave a great scream, and dropped her panful of doughnuts on the
floor, for on the threshold of the "pump-room" stood a boy as black as
the ace of spades, clad in startling yellow clothes, his neck ornamented
with a huge paper collar.

This image opened his mouth and spake. "Where's my mother? Give me a
dou