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ing a hurricane lantern. He stood beside his horse, eating the supper—tea and rough sandwiches—handed him from the leading wagon. There was a halt of ten minutes while the riders snatched some food: all others fed as they bumped over the uneven track. Then Big Dan gave the signal. It was taken up along the line. The leader gulped down his tea, handed back the tin mug, and swung into the saddle still eating. Wheels ground slowly into the dust: the last lorry lurched from the grass into the road. Peterson's Circus was under way: a long string of ghostlike vehicles following a swaying ghost-light into the bush-walled gloom.

The blue-and-gold caravan that was Dan Peterson's only home brought up the rear. It was a perfect home, he thought. Tonight, as he climbed up the steps, ducking his tall head as he entered, and closing the door behind him, it seemed to him that it had never looked more in viting.

Everything within was bright: clean paint, polished brass, gay yellow curtains drawn over the little windows. The swinging lamp cast a cheerful glow over all. It was divided into two compartments. The front one, known as the cabin, held two large bunks and a smaller one.

It was curtained off from the rear: and Big Dan's first action was to put his head through the curtains and look at the occupant of the little bunk, who, being very fast asleep, was unconscious of this attention on his part. All that Big Dan could see was a part of a rosy cheek, and a