Chap­ter IV begins with the arrival of the Spar­ling Com­bined Shows in Edme­ston, cast­ing a sense of won­der over the qui­et town. Phil and Ted­dy, perched on Wid­ow Cahill’s fence, watch in silent amaze­ment as a parade of cir­cus wag­ons rolls by, stir­ring the morn­ing still­ness. A sight rarely seen, the road-trav­el­ing cir­cus boasts a col­lec­tion of twen­ty-five dec­o­rat­ed wag­ons, each car­ry­ing the essence of per­for­mance and adven­ture. Phil’s heart races as he spots tow­er­ing ele­phants, the sil­hou­ette of a camel, and the rhyth­mic move­ment of ponies march­ing in uni­son. The scene is both sur­re­al and elec­tric, ignit­ing in them dreams of join­ing the show. It’s not just the grandeur that cap­tures their imag­i­na­tion, but the mechan­ics behind it—the peo­ple, the work, the mag­ic that unfolds before the first spot­light hits the ring. From that moment, the idea of becom­ing a show­man trans­forms from fan­ta­sy into a gen­uine pur­suit.

Eager not to miss a moment, the boys tail the car­a­van toward the cir­cus grounds, tak­ing in the excite­ment of work­ers ham­mer­ing stakes and map­ping out tent posi­tions. The orga­nized chaos fas­ci­nates them, espe­cial­ly when they spot Rod­ney Palmer, a per­former known for his skills on the fly­ing rings. Rod­ney, approach­able and spir­it­ed, shares his own expe­ri­ence and even offers advice on how Phil might earn a ticket—through ser­vice, not mon­ey. Inspired, Phil and Ted­dy vol­un­teer to assist wher­ev­er need­ed, using enthu­si­asm as their only cur­ren­cy. In this exchange, the tent-rais­ing becomes more than a spec­ta­cle; it becomes an oppor­tu­ni­ty. As they help lift can­vas and haul ropes, the boys feel the weight of cir­cus life in their hands—gritty, exhaust­ing, but real. Their deci­sion to immerse them­selves sig­nals a piv­otal shift: they’re no longer just spec­ta­tors.

Their moment of truth arrives unex­pect­ed­ly. A wag­on car­ry­ing a caged lion teeters dan­ger­ous­ly as it attempts a tight turn across uneven ground. Work­ers shout. Pan­ic flares. But Phil reacts. Sens­ing dan­ger, he push­es against the back cor­ner of the wag­on, using all his strength to sta­bi­lize it just long enough for oth­ers to inter­vene. His action, unplanned and instinc­tu­al, draws imme­di­ate attention—not just from Ted­dy or Rod­ney, but from the own­er him­self, Mr. James Spar­ling. Spar­ling, known for his dis­cern­ing eye, watch­es as the young boy pri­or­i­tizes safe­ty over fear, show­ing ini­tia­tive with­out wait­ing for orders. His thanks come not in long speech­es but in ges­tures that mat­ter: two com­pli­men­ta­ry pass­es to the after­noon show. Phil’s pride, how­ev­er, isn’t in the reward, but in the acknowl­edg­ment.

In cir­cus cul­ture, every act of courage—no mat­ter how small—carries weight. What Phil did wasn’t just help­ful; it aligned with the very ethos of cir­cus life: act swift­ly, pro­tect your own, and nev­er let fear par­a­lyze you. Ted­dy, though slight­ly more inclined to jest than hero­ics, basks in the reflect­ed glo­ry and excite­ment. They may still be out­siders in terms of title, but among per­form­ers, respect is earned by actions, not names. That morning’s event ele­vates them. Not as full mem­bers yet, but as boys with poten­tial. As they walk the grounds again, every­thing feels a bit more personal—the scent of saw­dust, the hum of the cal­liope, even the low rum­ble of caged cats ready­ing for show­time.

Rod­ney reap­pears and leads them through a dif­fer­ent part of the lot—closer to the per­former tents and prac­tice spaces. Here, they see the human side of the cir­cus. Men and women stretch, pol­ish props, review cues, and laugh over shared meals. One aeri­al­ist ban­dages her wrist while anoth­er tight­ens the leather on his bal­anc­ing pole. Phil notices how lit­tle glam­or exists in these behind-the-scenes moments, yet how much pas­sion puls­es through each person’s rou­tine. These aren’t just performers—they are crafts­men, ath­letes, and sto­ry­tellers rolled into one. It reminds Phil that the cir­cus isn’t built in a day. It’s a life, cho­sen and lived through grit and grace.

As noon approach­es and the sun reach­es its peak, the boys return to Wid­ow Cahill’s to share the news. She lis­tens, half-wor­ried, half-won­der­struck, and sends them off with a reminder to be care­ful and grate­ful. When they leave again, dressed in their best, tick­ets in hand, they know they’re walk­ing into more than a show—they’re step­ping into pos­si­bil­i­ty. In the grand­stand that after­noon, with cot­ton can­dy in hand and hearts pound­ing, they won’t just see lions and tightrope walk­ers. They’ll see themselves—hopeful, brave, and slow­ly becom­ing part of some­thing larg­er than they ever imag­ined.