him into the clown’s attention.  The clown, drawing from the wide pantaloons a dollar, pantomimed to Bud.  He held it up for the boy and all the spectators to see.  Alternately he pointed to the trick mule and to the coin, coaxing and questioning by signs, as he did so.  It took perhaps a minute for Bud’s embarrassment to wear off.  Then two motives impelled him to act.  He didn’t propose to let the North-enders see his embarrassment, and he saw that he might earn the dollar for Miss Morgan’s missionary box, thus mitigating the disgrace he had brought upon her in church.  This inspiration literally flashed over Bud, and before he knew it, he was standing in the ring, with his head cocked upon one side to indicate his utter indifference to everything in the world.  Of course it was a stupendous pretence.  For under his pretty starched shirt, which Miss Morgan had forced on him in the hurry of departure, his heart was beating like a little windmill in a gale.  As Bud bestrode the donkey the cheers of the throng rose, but above the tumult he could hear the North End jeering him.  He could hear the words the North-enders spoke, even their “ho-o-oho-os,” and their “nyayh-nyayh-nyayahs,” and their “look—­at—­old—­pretty—­boy’s,” and their “watch-him-hit-the-roof’s,” and their “get-a-basket’s,” and similar remarks less desirable for publication.  As the donkey cantered off, Bud felt sure he could keep his seat.  Once the animal bucked.  Bud did not fall.  The donkey ran, and stopped quickly.  Bud held on.  Then the donkey’s feet twinkled—­it seemed to Bud in the very top of the tent—­and Bud slid off the animal’s neck to the ring.  The clown brought the boy his hat, and stood over him as he rose.  Bud laughed stupidly into the chalked face of the clown, who handed Bud a dollar, remarking in a low voice, “Well, son, you’re a daisy.  They generally drop the first kick.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration:  “Well, son, you’re a daisy.  They generally drop the first kick.”]

What passed in the ring as Bud left it, bedraggled and dusty, did not interest him.  He brushed himself as he went.  The band was playing madly, and the young woman in the stiff skirts was standing by her horse ready to mount.  The crowd did not stop laughing; Bud inclined his head to dust his knickerbockers, and then in a tragic instant he saw what was convulsing the multitude with laughter.  The outer seam of the right leg of his velveteen breeches was gone, and a brown leg was winking in and out from the flapping garment as he walked.  Wildly he gathered the parted garment, and it seemed to him that he never would cover the ground between the ring and the benches.  In the course of several aeons—­which the other boys measured by fleeting minutes—­the wave of shame that covered Bud subsided.  Pins bound up the wounds in his clothes.  He drew a natural breath, and was able to join the mob which howled down the man who announced the concert.