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Hugh was panting when it was done. He stood for a moment watching the erection of the musicians' box. A deep voice feil on his ear, making him jump.

"Got nothing to do?"

For a moment he thought it was Big Dan, and hie heart went into his boots. But it was Crowe, second in command, and nearly as big and awe-inspiring as his master.

"N-no, sir."

"Then you cut over to my wagon an' get me my pipe. Mrs. Crowe'11 give it to you."

Hugh had not the slightest idea as to which wagon waB Crowe's, but he preferred to ask some one else. He bolted out of the tent, dodged several busy men, and was finally directed by Joey, who had washed off his baby make-up, but looked almost as melancholy without it.

"Crowe's wagon? That yeller one."

The door of the yellow caravan was shut. He went up the steps and knocked timidly.

"Come in," said a tired voice.

Hugh obeyed. He saw an untidy interior, lacking any of the splendor of Mrs. Dan's domain. A young woman, heavy-eyed, was sitting by the table, reading. One foot rocked a cradle in which a baby cried restlessly. He made known his message.

"I s'pose it's in his coat," said Mrs. Crowe. She found it, looking at him curiously as she gave it to him.

"You're the new boy?"

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