Jack thought this would be easy enough, and he soon retired to the dressing-tent to make-up for the street parade. The big wagon on which the clowns were to ride was hauled by eight prancing horses, and when Jack saw it, and knew he was to be on it, he felt a sense of pride that he had so soon been able to make a place for himself in such a big aggregation as a circus. “All clowns this way!” cried Sam Kyle as he came from the dressing-tent. “Here are your instruments.” The funnily-attired and painted men, including our hero, gathered around their leader, who handed out such a collection of noise-producing apparatus as was seldom seen. Each one had once been a musical instrument, but time and accident, in some cases purposely done, had changed the character of them. Now they produced nothing but discordant sounds. “All ready!” called Sam. “Get up!” The clowns began to ascend to the top of the high wagon, which was fitted with cross-seats. “Come! come! Hurry up!” cried Mr. Paine, running up to the clowns’ wagon. “The parade ought to have started an hour ago.” “We’re all ready,” replied Sam. “Step lively!” added another voice, and there came a crack like a pistol shot. At the same time Jack felt a stinging pain in his hip. He turned in time to see Otto Mitz, the ringmaster, swinging his vicious whip. The man did not have on his dress-suit, but was ordinarily attired. Jack started with the sudden pain, and Ted Chester laughed heartily. “That’s the way to wake him up,” he said. “Don’t you do that again, Mitz!” exclaimed Sam Kyle, for he had seen the mean act. “I guess I will if I like. I’m practicing.” “Then you try it on yourself,” added Sam angrily. “I’ll try it on you if I feel like it,” went on the ringmaster. Sam, with a suddenness that took Mitz by surprise, rushed up to him, grabbed the whip from his hand and threw it to one side. “I wouldn’t advise you to,” he said quietly. “Don’t you flick that lad again with your whip.” And then he turned and began to ascend the wagon. There was an ominous silence about the clowns’ wagon, and more than one expected to see a fight between the ringmaster and Sam. But Mitz, with a deep flush on his face, walked over, picked up his whip, and disappeared into the dressing-tent. “He’ll have it in for you, Sam,” remarked a jolly, fat little clown. “I’m not afraid of him,” replied Sam. “He’s too free with his whip, and it’s time some one told him so. Did he hurt you much?” he asked of Jack in a low voice. “Not much,” replied the lad, though the truth was the lash had bitten deep, and he had had hard work to refrain from crying out. But he bravely repressed his feelings.