At the head was a gorgeous wagon carrying a brass band. The men were in red coats, and they blew their trombones and cornets and beat their drums with the utmost vigor. A cavalcade followed, and then came four or five large and gayly painted carts, containing, so the pictures and legends indicated, the blood-sweating behemoth, the laughing hyenas, two Nubian lions, and the man-eating tiger of Bengal. But the carts were all closed, and the blood-sweating behemoth, if he were there, gave no sign. Nor did the other animals. We had to be contented with their painted likenesses on the sides of the carts. "Do you suppose they're inside there, now?" asked Rob Currier's small sister in a hushed voice. "Of course they are," Ed Mason assured her scornfully; "I saw one of the hyenas through a crack when they went by." "Look!" said Peter Bailey. "Here comes the steam calliope!" Sure enough, there it was. A man in overalls was energetically shovelling coal into the boiler, and a charming lady with very pink cheeks sat at the keys. As the thing came opposite us, she began to play, and every ear in the vicinity was split as with ten thousand steam whistles hooting out "Climbing Up Dem Golden Stairs." The noise was deafening, and each boy of us resolved that if he ever became rich, the first thing he would buy would be one of those delightful contrivances. Then he had only to hire a man to shovel coal into it, and he might sit all day and dispense music for miles in every direction. The calliope passed, as all beautiful things do, and our attention was distracted by a herd of elephants, who slouched along, dusty and morose. Then came some more carts of animals, and then a brilliant zebra led by a boy in a red coat. This boy looked up at us, grinned joyfully, and waved his hand. "Why, it's Horace Winslow!" some one exclaimed. It was indeed Horace. The red coat was evidently intended for a fair-sized man, for it hung below Horace's knees and gave him the appearance of wearing a single garment like a tunic. On his head was rakishly perched a small red cap, similar to those affected by the monkeys who travel with hand-organs. Horace's face was warm and perspiring, and a good deal of dust, aroused by the elephants and the carts, had adhered to it. But it was plainly the supreme moment of his life, and no fussy considerations of cleanliness annoyed him in the least. Was he not a feature in a genuine circus procession, marching with the clown, with real elephants, and leading a proud and striped zebra with his own hand? He grinned again, and waved his hand to us once more. We were petrified with amazement and envy. At that moment Mr. Vincent, cool and placid in seersucker clothes, stepped out of the bank. He was going down the street on some business errand, and he paused for a moment and gazed indulgently at the procession. "There's Horace, Mr. Vincent!" we all shouted.