toward the stars. Twice he brought them down again.

“Haven’t got the heart to do it,” he whispered to himself; “I’ll take a chance and wait.”

The sweet potatoes had been dug from the roasting pit; the feasters had sunk their teeth deep in juicy fat, when Pant was suddenly startled by a groan close at hand.

Without moving, he turned his head to see a colored boy sitting near him.

Recognizing the round, close-cropped bullet head as one belonging not to the circus, but to South Water Street, he leaned over and whispered:

“’Lo, Snowball, what y’ doin’ here?”

“Same’s you, I reckon.” The boy showed all his teeth in a grin. “Jes’ sittin’ an’ a-wishin’, dat’s all.”

“Pork chops, huh?”

“Ain’t it so, Mister? Ain’t dem the grandes’ you ain’t most never smelt?”

“Sh, not so loud,” cautioned Pant. “Maybe there’ll be some for you yet. Sort of reserve rations.”

“Think so, mebby?”

Pant nodded.

Then together they sat in silence while the feast went on; sat till the last bone and potato skin had been thrown upon the fast dulling coals.

“Huh!” sighed Snowball. “Hain’t no mo’.”

He half rose to go, but Pant pulled him back to his seat. Six of the colored gentlemen were wiping their hands on greasy bandanas, and were preparing to depart.

“Reckon me and Lanky’ll jes’ res’ here for a while,” grunted Mose.

“Eh-heh,” assented Lankyshanks.

The six had hardly disappeared over the hill when Lankyshanks’ eyes popped wide open.

“’Mergency rations,” he whispered.

 Prev. P 19/98 next