B-Jay the wonderful red Beetle car woke early the next day. As dreamlike images of B-Gray swirled and faded from his mind, too far off for his memory to hold onto, he stretched. His side mirrors twitched with the sadness of not knowing if B-Gray truly was his grandfather. It was a dream that had recently been recurring. He sighed deeply, creating a small puff of smoke that trickled gently from his exhaust before his attention was immediately snapped back into the real world by the sound of wild horses echoing across the farm.

He looked out of the garage window, smiling as he caught sight of them. Around six of them had wandered onto the farm, and it seemed they were enjoying the cooler, overcast morning while it lasted. The weather in the valley of Elmwood was fickle and could change at any point—even during an early August heat wave.

There was a tall, black horse grazing, its head down tugging at the leftover cornstalks from the harvest—stalks cut so low to the ground that it hardly seemed like a meal. Behind him, two smaller, younger horses chased each other, each one charging and bending down as if bowing to one another in some form of polite horse pageant before leaping up again on their hind legs, taking it in turns to make a run for it. Their gray mottled bodies blended into the Rocky Mountains in the background as they twisted and frolicked, neighing and whinnying in a way that B-Jay presumed was how horses laughed.

They reminded him of his friends and the tight-knit family they had become, and he decided that maybe the horses had wandered over because they were on some kind of adventure of their own. He hoped so.

His gaze was suddenly drawn upward as an eagle circled into view. It too was no doubt taking advantage of the cooler temperatures, not wishing to have its energy sapped by the raging sun that, for now, was contained by a backdrop of clouds that sat shoulder to shoulder in a seamless, suffocating embrace. Occasionally a sliver of gold would breach the stubborn barricade, only to be pulled back once more as the clouds regrouped, containing the sun's power that refused to submit as it beat and hammered against their backs. For now, the clouds were winning.

“One, two! One, two! And through and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack!” cried the voice of Thaddeus McTweedy, thespian spider, as all of his eight legs busied themselves cutting and stitching, measuring and folding, all while staring intently at the design sheets in front of him. He had been busy all night and showed no signs of fatigue or slowing down; there was too much to be done.

“I'm sorry, did you say something?” asked B-Jay, turning away from the garage window, thinking he had misheard while hoping that the spider had not driven himself into a sleepless state of craziness.

“It's from the Jabberwocky. Surely you have heard of the Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. It's just a little something I like to say while I am working. It reminds me that the outfit that I am making is a one-of-a-kind masterpiece—one that has never been seen before and one that will be talked about for years to come. In other words, it is so special it cannot be duplicated. Like the Jabberwocky poem.”

“Oh,” replied B-Jay. “What does it mean, this Jabberwocky?” he inquired, giving his tires a little thump of bravado, hoping not to seem stupid.

“Oh, that I don't know. I have no idea, but I think that is the point—the thing that makes it so special,” Thaddeus replied, twisting his head round as he laughed, his tam o' shanter hat dropping over to one side before an unassigned leg replaced it with a swift, deft movement.

Thaddeus had turned B-Jay's workbench into a cacophony of curiosities that gave B-Jay no clues as to what was going on. He knew he was making an outfit, but there were sketches stuck to the walls with spider threads running from one to another, rather resembling a crime scene map. The top of the workbench was strewn with threads and scissors, tape and pins, and pieces of what looked like an assortment of shiny, silver chain mail that wouldn’t look out of place in Lord of the Rings. Even though he couldn't see the finished outfit, whatever it was eventually going to be was certainly going to be a showstopper.

“I get the feeling you have done this before,” stated B-Jay as he watched the spider work.

“Aye, many, many times. I even made a dress for Elizabeth Taylor once, and Cinderella would not have gone to the ball were it not for my expert tailoring. You see, what people fail to realize when they are listening to actors perform is that the show is nothing without the right costumes. It doesn't matter whether you are good at reading your lines, or whether you’re reading a masterpiece written by Mr. Shakespeare himself; it doesn't even matter if you are the best actor ever to grace a stage. Nay, it is all down to the hard work of the costume designers; they, my dear Mr. B-Jay, they carry the show because they make everything believable. Take this outfit for instance; we are not just trying to hide Digger from the humans. Even though we know he can pull off the triple tumble with his eyes closed. How do you think he will be remembered?”

“Oh, I haven't really given it much thought, to be honest,” replied B-Jay, twitching his side mirrors in contemplation.

“He will be remembered not for what he did, but how he looked when he did it. It is all about the packaging. When he soars tomorrow night, he needs to look as dazzling as a shooting star—a star that, when he lands, will look like he fell from the heavens! That is what we are aiming for. Stardom of the celestial kind.” Thaddeus stopped dead still as he mouthed the words, all eight legs halting production as they both sat for a second trying to imagine the moment.

“Well, I guess I’d better let you get on with things,” said B-Jay, his attention suddenly snapping back to reality. “Maybe I will give you some space to work and go to the tree to see how the others are getting on. Do you need anything?” he asked, starting his engine as he opened the garage doors.

“Nay, I have everything here that I need,” stated Thaddeus, taking another dried fly from the packet in his sporran and placing it into his tiny spider mouth. “Maybe you could let them know that everything is proceeding wonderfully and according to plan.”

As B-Jay pulled out of the garage, he could hear Thaddeus singing, “Scissors, scissors, cut and fold, nip and tuck with stitches bold.”

Meanwhile at the tree, Zippo the theatrical ant and Digger Bo the tumbling badger had been hard at work with their training schedule. Zippo was hoarse from shouting out instructions and blowing his whistle, and hadn't taken his tracksuit off since they began. He was missing his Jedi robe, but he needed to give his friend his all if this was going to work. Hard work is nothing without dedication, and he needed to set an example. Digger Bo was, for once, exhausted, but his love for tumbling pushed him out of his comfort zone and he had relentlessly followed through on all that was asked of him.

When B-Jay arrived at the tree, Digger Bo was taking a water break, listening to the rather animated Zippo between sips. His fluffy face was all matted from the heat of the afternoon and the sweat of his efforts. Zippo didn't have his clipboard, having lent it to Thaddeus, so he drew diagrams in the dirt with his Jedi stick. The ground resembled the findings of some ancient civilization, hieroglyphic-looking images scattered all around as if to tell a history of events—a record of their most daring adventure yet.

“Hi everyone,” tooted B-Jay, thinking that they were all too engrossed with matters to notice his arrival.

“Ah, you are just in time,” hooted Aruna the wise Great Horned owl, clicking his beak twice before puffing out his chest. “We were just about to gather around the tree to discuss tomorrow's itinerary. We think we have it all worked out and it should work smoothly if everyone is able to play their part.”

B-Jay's mind momentarily went back in time to when he had lost his wheel, knowing that it was teamwork that had saved the day back then. “Well, I am sure you will pull it off,” he replied, flashing his lights as confirmation.

They all approached the tree, huddling close to Maxwell the large St Bernard dog and Cressida, the proud black cat, who were lying comfortably in the shade, eager to hear the plan and more than a little happy to take a break.

Aruna stretched out his wings and shuffled his taloned feet to a comfortable position, leaning forward as he spoke, his eyes wide and unblinking.

“First of all, we have to arrive early, before everyone gets there, to ensure we have a good view of the show. Digger, you need to be ready once the acrobats start their performance, so suit up when they start. Then I will fly to the top of the tent and drop Thaddeus onto the lighting rig, ready for the announcement. At this point, Cressida, you need to make your way to the generator so that you can pull the plug on the lights on my signal.”

“What is the signal?” asked Cressida, making sure she understood. Her ears faced forward and her tail swished slightly as she spoke.

“I will flap both wings twice and give a nod. At that point, Digger needs to be standing at the front of the tent opening. Once Cressida has disabled the lights, Thaddeus will drop down onto the microphone and announce Digger Bo as the stand-in for the injured Valentino. Once he mentions Digger Bo's name, B-Jay, you need to turn your full beams on, which will cast the shadow of Digger Bo into the tent. Everyone clear up to this point?” questioned Aruna, giving a snap of his beak to keep them all focused.

“So Cressida pulls the lights, Thaddeus drops down and announces Digger, and once he mentions Digger's name, I turn on my full beams. Sounds quite straightforward so far,” affirmed B-Jay, giving his horn a toot of approval.

“Exactly,” continued Aruna. “Now, once B-Jay puts his lights on, Digger, you need to make an entrance into the tent—I suggest a cartwheel or two to get the crowd excited. Then Cressida needs to turn the spotlights back on again so that Digger can climb the ladder to the platform. When you get to the top, Digger, Thaddeus will then take over and guide you through the rest of your tumbling display. We will go over it again tomorrow to make sure everyone is on board and knows their roles. B-Jay, you need to fill Thaddeus in when you get back so that he understands too. How is the outfit coming along, by the way? Without that, our plan will be pointless.”

“Thaddeus ensured me that everything was going to be fine. The outfit will be ready in time,” responded B-Jay.

“Excellent. Well, I suggest we all go home and rest and get a good night's sleep. We shall meet here again tomorrow around 6 p.m. so that we can get to the park before anyone else does. Don't forget to tell Thaddeus, B-Jay!”

“Let's bring it in, people,” cried Zippo, feeling that a group huddle was in order. They all put their wings, hands, and paws together as Zippo shouted loudly, “Digger Bo on three... one... two... three... Digger Bo!”

After the huddle, they broke out, going their own separate ways, except for Zippo and Digger Bo, who remained behind, going over things that Digger needed to do for his performance.

As they turned to leave—which was rather later than planned by the time they had triple-checked every step of the routine—Zippo decided to give him one last pep talk as they sat together under the tree.

“So when you are out there, buddy, I want you to focus. Your mind must be free of all doubt and all fear. I believe in you and you have to believe in yourself. So, when you are up there on that platform, I want you to focus on your breathing; nothing else matters. And before you take that leap into the record books, I want you to say this mantra to yourself. It will help you focus on what needs to be done. ‘Chin to chest—knees to chin—grab the tuck—then spin, spin, spin.’ Repeat it back to me.”

“Chin to chest—knees to chin—grab the tuck—then spin, spin, spin,” said Digger Bo, his hot, ragged breaths preceding each word.

“Again,” said Zippo shouting, upping the tempo. “And this time, I want you to mean it.”

“Chin to chest—knees to chin—grab the tuck—then spin, spin, spin!” hollered Digger Bo with every ounce of his fluffy chest, the words echoing in the dark, night air.

“Yes, I think you are finally ready!” whispered Zippo, putting his arm around his buddy. As they rose and started walking slowly back to Digger Bo's burrow, with the full moon casting their silhouettes across the grass, Zippo began to whistle the theme tune to “Rocky.”

Friday night came quickly and they arrived at the park early, parking right in front of the main tent's opening. Everything was, so far, going according to plan. As they waited under the cover of the setting sun, they went over their roles once more.

Slowly but surely, people started to arrive and the park transformed into a magical kingdom to delight all senses. People exited their parked cars from every direction, buzzing toward the food trucks like swarming locusts, drawn to the irresistible, sugary fog of kettle corn and the aroma of fried onions. There were corn dogs, Vikings on a stick, hot dogs and burgers, spun cotton and fried doughnuts, and a dozen hot and cold beverages to wash it all down. While people stood patiently in line at the food trucks, giggling children darted around their feet, scattering in all directions waving glowing, neon bracelets as their chattering parents tried—and failed—to keep them at their side.

The canvas of the main tent rippled with the light of several darting spotlights—lights that flickered and pulsed across the grass in an endless dance with the shadows of the park alongside the echoing of the ringmaster's booming voice, which reverberated off the trees, accompanied by rhythmic drumbeats and snarling trumpets. In the background throbbed the gentle hum of the generators that powered it all.

Everything in the park felt amplified—a sharp contrast to the silence of the town that lay empty and lifeless, an abandoned, dark speck on the horizon line. Even the moon seemed to draw close, eager to see what the fuss was all about.

“OK,” said Thaddeus, handing Digger Bo his outfit. “Remember to get changed by the time the acrobats start. Aruna and I will be at the top of the tent. Once the ringmaster announces that Valentino cannot perform, Cressida will turn off the generator that powers the tent lights. I will sail down onto the mic and introduce you as his replacement—you need to be ready for the signal, Digger. Once I have mentioned the word ‘Digerbo,’ B-Jay, you will turn on your high beams so that Digger can tumble his way into the tent. If all goes well, his shadow will look amazing and his entrance will be so incredible, we will likely meet no resistance. Digger, once you have finished your entrance routine, Cressida will turn the generator back on and you will then slowly climb the ladder to the platform, at which point I will have climbed back up and will meet you there.” By the time he had finished, at least six of his legs were pointing at someone.

Aruna nodded his head in agreement. Thaddeus had the plan expertly memorized, and now, seeing that it was showtime, he let the expert take over. He was used to directing intricate performances through his experience at the Playhouse; all they had to do was execute their roles at the right moments. They all knew what they had to do, but until that time came, they could sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

For the next two hours they all waited, watching from the safety of the car park, enthralled, as one by one the ringmaster orchestrated each act in turn. With a flick of his gloved wrist and a flourish of his silk top hat, he didn't just introduce the acts; he seemed to conjure them out of the shadows, his eyes gleaming with the mischievous secret of a man who seemed to possess magic. Barnaby Broadwhistle was truly a ringmaster of the ages. He knew how to get the crowd excited—to have them eating out of his palm—he had been doing it for almost thirty years, traveling up and down the country.

It was a sell-out crowd, with everyone sat tightly packed, having just enough room on the decked chairs to draw the breath needed to sustain their continued, uncontrollable laughter. The objects of their laughter were the clowns, dressed from head to toe in a rainbow of ill-fitting costumes and painted with larger-than-life expressions—expressions that were visibly big enough to hide any embarrassment they may have felt from falling over their own flippery feet. It was an endless procession of joyful mimed expressions from overpainted faces, interrupted by grossly exaggerated acts of anxiety as they sought to entertain while desperately trying to survive, against all odds, from the clown car that constantly chased them.

When the clowns had nothing more left to give, the drums changed their beat from being loud and haphazard to a slower, less tense rhythm. The lights dimmed before a single spotlight shot upward toward the roof of the tent, revealing a tightrope walker who was negotiating his way across a one-inch metal wire with the help of two toes and a rather long balancing pole. The crowd gasped at every little wobble. Down below, holding a very tiny blanket, were two of the clowns. Neither was in coordination with the other, often tugging the blanket in opposite directions as they fussed and fought over catching the high-wire walker should he fall. Occasionally one would drop the blanket to raise his hands to his mouth, miming out silent words of reassurance.

Once the walker had safely made his way to the end and taken his bow to relieved applause, he was replaced by a spectacle of speed and spinning. Several acrobats went through their individual routines, making use of ropes, hoops and dangling ribbons. As the technical difficulty increased they progressed to the high bars, the swinging trapeze, and each other's limbs. It became a marvelous team display of spinning, twisting, flipping, leaping, catching, and all manner of daring aerobatics where the strength of snapping wrists and strong finger grips were all that stood between them and the hard floor below.

“This is your moment, buddy,” Zippo said, his hands on his friend's shoulder, giving them a squeeze of encouragement. “It is time to show the world what Digger does best. What Digger loves best. Every tumble you have ever done has led to this moment. This is nothing you haven't done a thousand times. This is the ultimate adventure and you, my friend, you get to be the star. Time to make your way over to the tent. You got this!”

As Digger Bo made his way out of the car alongside Cressida, who was making her way to the generator, Cressida whispered, “I believe in you, Bo; remember we are all here for you as we love you!” She then launched forward into a smooth feline run, dodging unseen behind the generator, her black coat merging in with the shadows.

Digger Bo made his way to the entrance, and as he stood there waiting, he thought about what she had just said. Her words had been timed to perfection, giving him something other than fear to focus on as he waited to make his entrance. He pulled at the waist of his spectacular outfit, pleasantly surprised at how comfortable it felt, twitching his ears in anticipation as it settled back into shape.

Aruna and Thaddeus landed unseen on the top of the main tent. Thaddeus shot out a thread of spider silk and lowered himself down onto the lighting rig. The microphone below stood on its stand next to Barnaby Broadwhistle in the center of the ring. He was perfectly positioned.

“Showtime,” he said to himself, rolling all eight of his shoulders and snapping each buckled leg so that they gripped tightly.

It was a matter of minutes later when the last of the acts, the trapeze, came to an end. Thankfully there had been no further injuries, and all the acrobats joined hands across the ring, bowing to the audience as they spun in a long line, making sure they thanked everyone. After rotating a full circle, milking the applause, they broke hands, clapping each other before skipping away to the side.

As Barnaby Broadwhistle was about to make the final announcement of the evening, Valentino came hobbling from the wings, his crutches revealing that something was wrong. The crowd sensed a problem, and there were a few mumblings and murmurings as several heads turned in his direction. The ringmaster adjusted his top hat, straightened his tight-fitting jacket, fidgeting as he looked for the right words that he knew he needed to say, hoping that the bad news would not be too much of a disappointment. A hush settled over the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “The Cirque du Soleil would like to thank you all for coming out this week. I hope I speak on behalf of all the acts in saying that you have been a wonderful audience, and without you we would be nothing. It has been a pleasure performing for you. However, as you can obviously see, Volante Valentino, who normally ends the show with his world-record triple tumble, injured himself in training and, I say this with much regret, is unable to perform for you tonight. We are sorry about this and would ask for your understanding as we wish him a speedy recovery. Hopefully our other performers made up for this shortfall. We look forward to seeing you all next year. Have a safe trip home, and thank you all once again. Goodnight!”

Once he had finished the speech, he stepped backward and took a final bow, tipping his silk hat in front of him.

For a moment nothing happened, until the hush was broken very loudly by disgruntled moans and sneers of displeasure. A few salty words were thrown his way, alongside a barrage of popcorn that rained down on him from all directions. The sounds of “Boo!” grew louder and louder among the hissing as the disgruntled crowd threw up their hands, rising from their seats.

It was not the reaction the ringmaster expected, and, dodging flying corn kernels, he stepped quickly to the seated form of Volante Valentino, his face etched with panic.

“Volante, you have to perform!” he cried, his white-gloved hands held together in prayer, looking down at Valentino. “You are the only one who can stop this madness. Volante—please! We cannot end like this.”

The moment Barnaby Broadwhistle stepped away from the mic, Thaddeus gave Aruna the signal—a quick flick of a front leg—before descending down a silk thread to the microphone. Aruna responded, giving two flaps of his wings and a nod to Cressida, who didn't hesitate in throwing the switch on the generator that powered the lights. Instantly the tent was plunged into darkness. No one moved and a hush fell over the crowd once more, caught off guard by the pitch black of the moment.

Outside, Digger Bo waited. Zippo and Maxwell positioned themselves in the front of the car; it was showtime. Maxwell sat upright on his haunches while Zippo positioned himself on the dashboard, his face pressed tight against the glass. Thaddeus wasted no time, his voice echoing in the dark.

“Ladieeeees and Gentlemeeeeeen,” he began in true showbiz style. “Unfortunately Valentino is unable to perform tonight, but do not despair—all is not lost, because tonight fate will be taking his place. So, please take your seats once more. I ask you to prepare yourselves. Prepare yourselves to be deeeelighted. Prepare yourselves to be dazzzzzled. Prepare yourselves to witness the most daring display of dynamic death-defying dexterity. Prepare yourselves for the one, and the only ‘DIGERRRRRRRRBO’!”

As soon as he finished the word “Digerbo,” his eight legs were carrying him back up the thread to the platform where he would wait for Digger. As he scampered onto it, Aruna gave him a double hoot and flapped his wings incessantly, his adrenaline running through every part of his body. Then B-Jay flipped on his lights.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd inside the tent as the shadowy form of Digger Bo stretched across the floor. He looked immense, like a hero of the coliseum as the high beams cast his shape the entire length of the ring. The mood of the crowd changed as he vaulted his way toward the center of the ring: two cartwheels and three back flips and a perfectly executed landing.

Cressida hit the switch on the generator, and the spotlights came back on. Light refracted off his magnificent silver outfit in all directions, casting small rainbow-looking shards on every side of the tent's murky beige canvas. He stood for a second, frozen, unable to move knowing that all human eyes were on him. His heart began to rise, beating so hard that it rippled the front of his suit. He looked like a pulsating diamond.

The crowd started to clap. A slow, steady handclap. A rhythmical handclap. A handclap of encouragement. It was a beat he liked to tumble to, so he turned, slowly making his way to the ladder. His breathing steadied as he started the ascent.

No one stopped him as hand after hand he climbed. Quite the opposite: the ringmaster exchanged glances with one of the lighting attendants and gestured to him to keep the spotlight aimed directly on the unknown person who had calmed the maelstrom of angry spectators.

Digger Bo reached the top and stepped onto the platform.

Outside, Zippo mumbled to Maxwell, “Stage one complete, buddy; now it's showtime!” He ticked an imaginary box in the air as Maxwell nodded, giving a short bark. All eyes were on Digger.

Digger reached forward and grabbed the bar. It was at least twenty feet to the other bar and at least that same distance, if not more, to the floor below. Thaddeus spoke. “Take a breath, Digger; slowly in and slowly out. Put all thoughts out of your mind other than tumble. Focus on what you do best. Remember your training. Don't worry about the other bar; I will control that, you just focus on your timing and leave the rest to me. Remember to push off with all you have; the rest should come naturally. I am ready when you are!”

Digger took a second to breathe; he looked at the crowd, he looked at the ground, he even looked up at Aruna, who gave him a wing flap and a hoot of encouragement. He remembered what Zippo had told him, and he spoke the mantra in his mind, his focus returning to the moment at hand.

“Chin to chest—knees to chin—grab the tuck—then spin, spin, spin.”

He repeated it three times in his head, each time taking in a slow, deep breath. His heart stilled and his mind cleared as he leapt from the platform with every ounce of power from his stocky badger thighs. The suit held, conforming to every stretching sinew; there were absolutely no restrictions as it moved with him.

As he burst forward, time stood still. The crowd inhaled and all of the noise was sucked out of the air as they watched him glide forward. He released his hold on the bar - there was no turning back now. He tucked, spinning forwards, his form perfect as the crowd slowly whispered, “One... two... three...” With every rotation, the light reflected off the spider silk outfit creating a myriad of silver sparks that flickered like a shower of falling glitter—a shower that exploded outwards in all directions.

Three rolls went by and he continued to hold tight. He should have untucked after the third, but he was still tucked, still spinning. The tent went deathly silent as the sparks continued to dazzle.

Thaddeus held tight to the other bar; his timing was perfect—all Digger had to do was reach. As he completed the fourth roll, he untucked. It was like watching the birth of a star as it exploded in the heavens, and the tent was filled with the sounds of people gasping in awe and wonder, but his descent in holding so long was an inch or two too lower than he needed to be.

The crowd sensed that something bad was about to happen, and the gasps were suddenly replaced by fearful cries as everyone leapt up from their seats, concern etched on every face.

The sudden rise of people standing so quickly was enough to create a slight updraft of air. In stretching out his arms he unveiled a marvelous pair of wings that Thaddeus had designed. They stretched from the underneath of his arms, joining to the side of his chest, like a crystal bat and they caught the updraft perfectly. He rose just as the bar came toward him, his badger claws circling around it, and his grip tightened as he swung forward with it. The bar swung away with him safely aboard, and as the swing died before returning back the other way, he managed to shift his momentum to flip, landing on the bar with his feet, holding onto the side ropes with his hands.

Thaddeus quickly scuttled along the thread that he had used to control the bar and joined Digger Bo on the swinging trapeze. “Beautiful,” he uttered. “Simply beautiful,” wiping away a spider tear with his front leg.

Below, the crowd stood stunned. Then voices echoed all around the tent: “Did that just happen?”... “Am I dreaming?”... “Was that really a quadruple or did I miscount?”... “That was amazing!”... “I don't think I have ever seen anything like that in my entire life!”... “Was that a new world record?”

Thaddeus let Digger Bo savor the moment for a minute before he whispered, “Time to go, laddie!” He lowered them both down slowly using his spider silk. When they reached halfway down, he said, “Give them one last look at your wings before we land.” Digger Bo stretched out his arms again, as wide as they could go, and together they descended from the heavens. A glittering star had been born.

As they touched the ground, breaking into a run for the car, the crowd exploded into a mixture of claps, whistles, cheers, and cries of “Bravo!” and “Encore!” Then, just as they were about to exit the tent, a small boy asked, “Mommy, was that a real angel?”

Digger smiled before disappearing from sight, leaving a very confused Barnaby Broadwhistle and a slightly angry Volante Valentino to reconcile with the crowd.

By the time Digger Bo reached B-Jay, Thaddeus safely attached to his shoulder, Aruna had already repositioned himself on the headrest and a rather smiling Cressida had taken her seat up front along with Zippo who was on the dashboard. Maxwell was already in the back chasing his tail around and around, barking as he did so.

Digger tumbled his way to the back seat as quickly as possible. B-Jay started his engine and with a short spray of spinning gravel he accelerated quickly away, exiting the park.

Inside the tent, a rather relieved Barnaby Broadwhistle was lapping up the applause from an audience that wasn't quite ready to leave yet. The ringmaster bowed again and again, turning in all directions. He pointed to the clowns, the acrobats, the high-wire act, and everyone who had performed or had been involved in the evening. Then, he held out his white-gloved hands as if he was preparing to hug everyone before leaning into the microphone, closing the show with the following words:

“That, Ladies and Gentlemen, that is show business. Goodnight!”