Then Ed suggested that we move our camp. Immediately the problem arose: in which direction should we move? While we deliberated, in whispers, suddenly again, ominous and terrible:-- "_K'r-rum!_" That sufficed. In three seconds we were over the wall and running at full speed along the highway. At the crossroads, an eighth of a mile away, we saw the lights of a buggy. It contained certain male relatives. "Hello, boys! Going home?" We admitted that that was our destination. CHAPTER XI UP LIKE A ROCKET On the morning following our return from the flight, there was an uncomfortable chill about my house. When I met Ed Mason, I found that he had noticed the same coolness in his home. Nothing was said, no reproaches were cast upon us for our trip towards Omaha and the great West, but I understood, somehow, that I should not be invited to attend the circus in the afternoon. The necessary half-dollar did not make its appearance. Ed reported a similar state of affairs. This was simply tragic. We took counsel, and decided that in Horace Winslow, if anywhere, lay our salvation. He was a person of stratagem, of plans and plots, and he might be able to show us a way out of trouble. Moreover, he had let drop some mysterious hints of influence which he expected to possess with the circus people. More than a week before he had darkly suggested that he might be connected in no inconspicuous position with the coming show. His utterances returned to us now. "Let's go over and see him," I suggested. "All right," Ed Mason agreed; "or, say, you're goin' over to stand on the bank steps at ten o'clock to see the parade, ain't you?" "Yes." "Well, we'll see Horace there, sure,--he always goes." And it was so decided. Before ten o'clock we all set out for Main Street,--Ed Mason, Rob Currier, Peter Bailey, and myself, together with an unavoidable convoy of small sisters and other relatives. The streets had that appearance which circus day and no other always brought. Toy balloon men and sellers of paper whirligigs wandered up and down, and strange looking persons, clutching children with one hand and paper bags of luncheon with the other, stood or sat on the grass bankings, edge-stones, and lawns, in front of the houses. Through a sort of family privilege enjoyed by Peter Bailey, and always exercised on such occasions, we took up our position on the steps of the Merrimack Bank. Mr. Vincent, Horace's uncle, could be seen at his duties inside the bank, but he did not come out. Circus processions did not interest him. Horace was unaccountably absent. There were two or three false alarms, two or three mistaken announcements by members of the crowd: "Here they come!" Twice we thought we heard in the distance the faint blare of brass instruments, as well as a deeper sound which Ed Mason declared to be the roaring of lions. But at last they did come. Majestically, and with clashing cymbals, they descended Main Street.