—P. T. Barnum IT WAS ONE O’CLOCK NOW, and Howie Rook hastily wound his way through the maze of tents and machinery and trucks, looking for the domain of the clowns, the place called Clown Alley. He tried to take what he thought was a short cut—and found himself in the horse-top. Here he rashly decided to go straight on through, noting as he passed that the magnificent Percherons and Clydesdales of the circuses he remembered had disappeared forever; all of the great draft horses that once had drawn the gaily painted wagons through the streets were gone with the parade itself. Here were only a hundred or so thoroughbreds, pure-bred Arabians, and white-and-gray resin-backs with stubby legs. Some of them turned to whicker at him, then noticed his formal apparel or his clean smell and wisely turned back, certain that he had brought them nothing to eat. At the farther end of the tent were a pair of fat little striped zebras, gay sport-model jackasses. Rook had never seen a zebra this close, and he came up behind them and chirped pleasantly.
