Sparling, from the side lines, stood leaning against a
quarter pole with a set grin on his face. His confidence in his
little Circus Boy was not wholly lost yet.
"Keep her up! Keep her up! What ails you?" snapped Phil.
All the grit in the lad's slender body seemed to come to the
front now. His eyes were flashing and he gripped the little
riding whip as if he would vent his anger upon it.
The ringmaster's whip had exploded again and the gray began
to gallop. Phil paused on the ring curbing with head slightly
inclined forward, watching the gray with keen eyes.
Phil had forgotten that sea of human faces out there now. He saw
only that broad gray, rosined back that he must reach and cling
to, but without a slip this time.
All at once he left the curbing, dashing almost savagely at
his mount.
"He'll never make it from the ground," groaned Mr. Sparling,
realizing that Phil had no step to aid him in his effort to reach
the back of the animal.
The lad launched himself into the air as if propelled by
a spring. He landed fairly on the back of the ring horse,
wavered for one breathless second, then fell into the pose
of the accomplished rider.
"Y-i-i-i--p! Y-i-i-i-p!" sang the shrill voice of Little Dimples
far down in ring No.
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