The Circus Boys On The Flying Rings | Page 7

you turn me out?"
"Would I? I have, only you are too stupid to know it. You'll thank me for it when you get old enough to have some sense."
Phil's heart sank within him, and it required all his self-control to keep the bitter tears from his eyes.
"When do you wish me to go?" he asked without a quaver in his voice.
"Now."
"Very well, I'll go. But what do you think my mother would say, could she know this?"
"That will do, young man. Do your chores, and then--"
"I am not working for you now, Uncle, you know, so I shall have to refuse to do the chores. There is fifty cents due me from Mr. Churchill for fixing his chicken coop. You may get that, I don't want it."
Phil turned away once more, and with head erect entered the house, going straight to his room, leaving Abner Adams fuming and stamping about in the front yard. The old man's rage knew no bounds. He was so beside himself with anger over the fancied impudence of his nephew that, had the boy been present, he might have so far forgotten himself as to have used his cane on Phil.
But Phil by this time had entered his own room, locking the door behind him. The lad threw his books down on the bed, dropped into a chair and sat palefaced, tearless and silent. Slowly his eyes rose to the old-fashioned bureau, where his comb and brush lay. The eyes halted when at length they rested on the picture of his mother.
The lad rose as if drawn by invisible hands, reached out and clasped the photograph to him. Then the pent-up tears welled up in a flood. With the picture pressed to his burning cheek Phil Forrest threw himself on his bed and sobbed out his bitter grief. He did not hear the thump of Abner Adams' cane on the bedroom door, nor the angry demands that he open it.
"Mother, Mother!" breathed the unhappy boy, as his sobs gradually merged into long-drawn, trembling sighs.
Perhaps his appeal was not unheard. At least Phil Forrest sprang from his bed, holding the picture away from him with both hands and gazing into the eyes of his mother.
Slowly his shoulders drew back and his head came up, while an expression of strong determination flashed into his own eyes.
"I'll do it--I'll be a man, Mother!" he exclaimed in a voice in which there was not the slightest tremor now. "I'll fight the battle and I'll win."
Phil Forest had come to the parting of the ways, which he faced with a courage unusual in one of his years. There was little to be done. He packed his few belongings in a bag that had been his mother's. The lad possessed one suit besides the one he wore, and this he stowed away as best he could, determining to press it out when he had located himself.
Finally his task was finished. He stood in the middle of the floor glancing around the little room that had been his home for so long. But he felt no regrets. He was only making sure that he had not left anything behind. Having satisfied himself on this point, Phil gathered up his bundle of books, placed the picture of his mother in his inside coat pocket, then threw open the door.
The lad's uncle had stamped to the floor below, where he was awaiting Phil's coming.
"Good-bye, Uncle," he said quietly, extending a hand.
"Let me see that bag," snapped the old man.
"The bag is mine--it belonged to my mother," explained the boy. "Surely you don't object to my taking it with me?"
"You're welcome to it, and good riddance; but I'm going to find out what's inside of it."
"You surely don't think I would take anything that doesn't belong to me--you can't mean that?"
"Ain't saying what I mean. Hand over that bag."
With burning cheeks, Phil did as he was bid, his unwavering eyes fixed almost sternly on the wrathful face of Abner Adams.
"Huh!" growled the old man, tumbling the contents out on the floor, shaking Phil's clothes to make sure that nothing was concealed in them.
Apparently satisfied, the old man threw the bag on the floor with an exclamation of disgust. Phil once more gathered up his belongings and stowed them away in the satchel.
"Turn out your pockets!"
"There is nothing in them, Uncle, save some trinkets of my own and my mother's picture."
"Turn them out!" thundered the old man.
"Uncle, I have always obeyed you. Obedience was one of the things that my mother taught me, but I'm sure that were she here she would tell me I was right in refusing to humiliate myself as you would have me do. There is nothing in my pockets that does not belong to me. I am not a thief."
"Then I'll